Ilya moves down the wet, cold New York streets with his hood pulled low, the night air biting through every layer he’s wearing. The pavement glistens with rain, reflecting the blur of traffic lights and storefront neon, but none of it registers—his mind is locked on the ache gnawing through his body.

Withdrawal chews at the inside of his skull, a steady, animal hunger that only grows sharper with every step. He needs a fix. Needs it bad. Three years of chasing heroin through back alleys, halfway houses, and strangers’ apartments, and it still hasn’t gotten easier. If anything, the addiction has only woven itself deeper into him, tangled through his nerves like wire.

His life has become a knot of obsession and chaos, every relationship burned out or drifting away except the one he has with the dope. It’s the only thing that still makes sense to him—cold, demanding, and destructive, but familiar in a way nothing else is. In a city that never cared whether he lived or died, the addiction felt like the closest thing he had to a companion.

And tonight, as the rain slides down his face and he shoves his numb hands deeper into his pockets, he knows he’ll do anything to quiet the screaming in his veins.