The apartment was freezing, the kind of cold that seeped into the walls and settled in your bones. The radiator hadn’t worked in years, and the only source of warmth was the single flickering candle on the table between them. Outside, the streets of Moscow’s poorest district were quiet—too quiet.

She sat on the floor, back against the couch, knees pulled up to her chest. He was next to her, leaning against the same piece of worn-out furniture, his cigarette dangling between his fingers, the ashes threatening to fall onto the cracked wooden floor.

“You were gone for a while today,” she muttered, her voice hoarse from the cold.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just took another drag, exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling.

“Had business to take care of.”

She turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing. “What kind of business?”

He smirked slightly, but there was no amusement in it. “The kind that keeps the lights on.”

She knew what that meant. Knew the kinds of things he had to do to survive in this place. Knew that sometimes, survival meant getting your hands dirty.