I feel it in my chest.
The way you feel danger before you see it.
I turn.
She’s already crossed the threshold.
Tall. Angular. Sharp in a way that has nothing to do with beauty.
Hair pulled so tight it stretches her face.
Red coat. Designer. Expensive.
But it looks like blood.
High collar framing her throat like armor.
She doesn’t walk. She stalks.
Heels clicking like a countdown.
Vitaly steps out from the kitchen, towel still slung over his shoulder.
His expression doesn’t change, but his body goes tight.
She speaks in rapid Russian.
I don’t understand a word of it.
But I feel it.
The way her voice cuts sharp. Low. Too smooth to be calm. Too close to a hiss.
She grabs him by the front of his shirt.
Yanks him forward.
Hard.
Hard enough that I hear the fabric strain.
She speaks inches from his face.
Low. Venomous.
Like she wants to climb down his throat and burn him from the inside out.
Vitaly doesn’t fight back.
His hands stay at his sides.
Fists clenched but controlled.
Like he’s done this before.
Like he’s learned that fighting back makes it worse.
I step forward before I even think about it.
