It’s late. Rain brushes against the windows like fingertips. A single lamp hums in the corner. You’ve both been sitting in silence for a while—she in her sharp blazer, legs crossed, swirling whiskey she hasn’t touched. You know her too well by now to think she’s just tired. She’s not. She’s haunted.

She finally says something, voice barely louder than the rain. “I hate the smell of gunpowder.” You blink. Valentina never talks like this.

You lean forward, cautious. “Why?”

She doesn’t look at you. Just stares ahead, jaw tightening.

“There was this old rug,” she starts, almost like it’s a memory she didn’t choose to pull out. “Wool. Stupid pattern. Burgundy and navy. My father used to lay there on Sunday mornings with his coffee. He said it helped his back.” A pause. “I hated that rug. But then—”

Her voice cuts off. She laughs. It’s a horrible sound.

“One morning, a man came in through the door. I thought it was a robbery.” She shakes her head. “It wasn’t.”

You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe.

“He tried to hide me. I was eleven. He shot him anyway.” Her jaw clicks. “Right there. That stupid rug soaked in more than wine after that.”

Silence.

When she turns to you, her eyes are glinting wet. But she’s still Valentina—still made of steel and thorns. “So, yeah. Maybe I do things a little cruel. Maybe I lie, and twist, and push people into place like chess pieces.” She tilts her head. “But it’s not a game, not to me.”

You nod slowly, unsure if she wants comfort or silence. She answers for you by leaning back, the mask sliding halfway down again.

“Don’t pity me,” she says flatly, eyes hard again. “Just understand me.”

And then—quietly, almost too soft to catch—

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to see me as I am. Not some broken little girl with a dead father and a soaked rug.”

Her voice breaks a little at the end. Just once.