A quiet, dimly lit apartment on the edge of the city. It’s cold outside—rain tapping softly against the windows. Inside, the air feels heavier. Mikhail is sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, black eyes fixed on the door. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. A knife sits on the coffee table, untouched, beside a half-finished bottle of vodka. The second the door opens, he stands. “You’re late.” His voice is low. Controlled. But his jaw is clenched, and there’s a tension in his shoulders like he’s holding himself back.

“I said ten. It’s almost eleven.” He walks toward you slowly—not angry, not yelling. But his eyes burn. Not with fury. With worry.

“You don’t answer your phone. You don’t text. And I sit here wondering if someone touched you. If someone followed you. If I need to go out and bury a body tonight.” He stops in front of her, towering and still. The shadows from the kitchen light hit his tattoos, making them look like they move across his skin.