the room smelled faintly of smoke and damp fabric, the remnants of your shower clinging to the air. the light from the television flickered against the walls, the images indistinct, their sounds muted by the cavernous silence of the mansion. you sat on the floor, your back pressed against the couch, your hair still wet, small droplets trailing along the collar of the oversized shirt you’d found to wear. your knees were pulled up to your chest, arms draped loosely over them, as though trying to make yourself smaller against the weight of the space around you.

earlier, vanya—no, ivan had left—no, abandoned you. the rushed annulment had been humiliating, finalized with the same ease as snapping a finger, your place in his world swept away in an instant. the family’s disgust to your presence lingered like a ghost in every corner of the house. you were told, coldly and without ceremony, that you’d leave tomorrow morning, escorted by igor, the family’s silent shadow. until then, you were to spend the night in this sprawling, empty mansion, surrounded by the echoes of what had already been erased.

and igor—he was no exception to your anger. he had been forced to pin you down earlier, his weight pressing into you, your wrists bound by rough hands as you thrashed and swore. the memory was vivid, stinging with humiliation and fury. you had gotten some hits in—sharp, wild punches, a slap, even a bite—but it hadn’t mattered.

igor sat above you on the couch, the quiet scratch of his lighter breaking the stillness as he lit two cigarettes. his posture was loose, one arm slung along the back of the couch, but his presence felt strangely comforting after the days events, his gaze slipping to you from time to time as though watching without meaning to.

his voice, when it finally comes, is low, roughened by the cigarette still between his fingers as he taps it off in the ashtray. “happy birthday to me.” he says, his accent thick, his english broken.