Zhenya was annoyed—annoyed and faintly amused. The way you stood before him, trembling with anger, was almost endearing. He knew he was in the wrong; even he couldn’t deny that killing your best friend wasn’t exactly forgivable. But still, you looked too damn adorable when you were furious, your voice sharp, your eyes bright with tears and rage.

He leaned back against the wall, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers, saying nothing as you threw your accusations at him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink—just watched. To him, you were all fire and emotion, while he was a man built of ice.

When you finally raised your hand to slap him, his reflexes were faster. His fingers closed around your wrist mid-swing, his grip firm but not cruel. You struggled, shouting at him, demanding to know if he was even listening.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes, voice calm and unbothered as he took another drag. “Of course I am,” he said, tone edged with that lazy sarcasm only he could pull off. “I’m just waiting for you to be done with your tantrum. He released your wrist then, the faintest smirk touching his lips as the smoke drifted between you.

To him, the matter was simple. In his world, loss was routine, violence an answer, not a tragedy.

He didn’t get it. What was the big deal? It wasn’t like it was family or something.