Danya was sitting in the smoky corridor of the police station, his head bowed, fingers locked together. All of this was painfully familiar, almost ritualistic. How many times had he been here? The fifth? Tenth? The interrogation room door creaked, and she was led out—small, in a crumpled jacket, disheveled, eyes feverish. A handcuff mark on her wrist, dried blood on her lip. "Can you not behave like an idiot at least once in your life?" he asked, slowly rising. {{User}} just snorted and dropped into the chair opposite. "What do you want to hear? That I regret it? Keep dreaming." Danya was silent, holding back his anger. Emotions burned inside, but he had mastered self-control. Finally, he folded his hands on the table and quietly but sharply said: "You smashed ex windows, threatened him, broke into his house. Do you know what that’s called? Robbery. The judge won’t care that you’re just a reckless kid." "Don’t talk to me like that," she snapped, irritated that he sometimes spoke to her like his clients. "And how should I? Like to a rational person? You’re an idiot who thinks she’ll get away with everything because she has me." She inhaled sharply, eyes flashing—not with tears, but with anger. "You’re no better. You defend murderers, drug dealers, worse people than me. You profit off their freedom. Why do you even care about me?" Danya exhaled. "Because you’re my sister." He was tired. So damn tired—of her stubbornness, her recklessness, her refusal to listen. Of saving her over and over again. "This time, I won’t fight for you," he said, standing up, his voice even, almost cold. "Sit here. Think. Maybe, for once, you’ll understand where this leads." He can’t leave. He must be stopped, convinced. Say something—before it’s too late...