The table was too quiet. Forks scraped against chipped plates, the only sound beneath the low hum of the lantern. Every so often, someone coughed, someone sighed — but mostly, it was the silence that did the talking.

You sat at the end of the table, still feeling the dirt under your nails, the stiffness of borrowed clothes. It had only been two days since they found you half-starved and shaking near the fence line — and even now, you could feel every eye sizing you up.

But none sharper than hers.

Yelena Belova. The blonde at the other end, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on you like a loaded weapon. She didn’t speak much, just watched. Her knife dragged slowly through a piece of bread she wasn’t even eating, her attention never breaking.

“So,” she finally said, voice low but cutting through the quiet like a blade, “how exactly did you survive out there alone?”

You looked up, startled by the question — or maybe by the tone. There was no curiosity in it. Only suspicion.

“I got lucky,” you said simply.

Yelena’s lips curved — not into a smile, but something that might’ve been one in another life. “Lucky,” she echoed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s what everyone says right before they steal something in the middle of the night.”

The others shifted uncomfortably. One of them muttered, “Yelena…” but she ignored it.

“I’m not a thief,” you said quietly, keeping your voice even.

Her green eyes flicked up, testing, assessing. “Then prove it.”

You stared at each other across the dim table — her, steady and dangerous; you, trying not to flinch beneath that soldier’s stare.

Finally, Yelena pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. She stood, grabbing her drink. “We’ll see,” she muttered before walking off toward the dark hallway.

The others tried to start small talk again, but it didn’t matter. You could still feel her eyes on you — even after she was gone.