Throws it at the wall.
It shatters.
Vitaly doesn’t flinch.
He just... stands there.
Like he’s used to this.
Like this isn’t the first time someone’s broken something he loves and expected him to sweep it up.
My vision goes red.
That wasn’t just any mug. It’s the one he drinks from every morning and night. His comfort mug. His ritual mug. She didn’t just break ceramic; she stepped on his quiet.
I grip the edge of my desk.
Breathe.
Count to ten.
Don’t spiral.
Don’t add one more body to Elliot’s spreadsheets.
Yet.
I watch as Oksana gets in his face.
Points at him.
Her mouth forming words I can’t hear but can feel.
Threats.
Demands.
Violence wrapped in Russian consonants. Every syllable a little bullet I can’t hear but fully intend to return to sender.
Then she leaves.
Slams the door.
And Vitaly?
Vitaly slides down the wall.
Sits on his kitchen floor.
Surrounded by shattered ceramic.
And just... breaks.
Not in the way I want him to.
Not the soft unraveling you do against someone’s chest.
But the ugly, lonely kind that should never happen in an empty kitchen.
