My focus slips, the way it sometimes does when the apartment is too quiet and my brain has space to wander backward.
I remember being nine, maybe ten, and sneaking out of bed because I heard raised voices downstairs: Russian, sharp,urgent.
I padded down the curved staircase in my fuzzy slippers, hugging the banister, heart hammering. The living room lights were low, but I could see the shapes clearly enough.
My father stood in the center like always, broad shoulders filling the room. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and streaked crimson across the chest and sleeves. Not a lot, butenough.
The metallic smell hit me a second later.
Copper. Iron.Blood.
Around him were four or five of his most trusted men. Men whose names I wasn’t supposed to know but did anyway. Sergei with the scarred eyebrow. Dmitri who always smelled of cigars and leather. All of them spattered the same way. One held a dark cloth pressed to his forearm. Another stared at the floor like he was memorizing the pattern in the rug.
I must have made a sound—a tiny gasp—because my father’s head snapped toward the doorway. His eyes found mine instantly, cold and unreadable in that moment.
“Artyom,” he barked, using my real name like a whip. “Bed, child.Now.”
I bolted. My legs shaking, I scrambled back upstairs and dove under the covers, pulling them over my head like they coulderase what I’d seen. I lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling shadows, replaying the image over and over.
Was someone hurt?
Dead?
Had my father hurt them? Or had someone tried to hurthim?
The next morning he appeared at breakfast alongside my mother as if nothing had happened. Fresh shirt. Calm voice. He poured my orange juice, set the glass in front of me, then sat across the table with his coffee.
I waited. And waited. Finally I whispered, “Papa… last night…”
“Forget it,” he said, not looking up from his newspaper. “It was nothing. Go to school.”
That was it. No explanation. No comfort. Just an order to erase it from my memory. And the way he uttered his words, accompanied by a hard look in his eyes, told me that under no circumstances was I to press him any further on the matter. My father had a temper, and I knew what his limits were.
I never brought it up again. But I never really forgot either.
But that was then. In the here and now, a soft buzz pulls me back to the present. My phone lights up on the desk and I reach over and pick it up…
TODD:Morning sunshine! Up for a sauna sesh before lectures? The one on 14th just opened at 6. Steam + gossip = perfect start to the day. You in?
I smile despite the heaviness still sitting in my chest. Todd always knows exactly when to appear, even if it’s just via text.
LANDON:Yes please. Meet you there at 6:30? Need to sweat out some stress.
TODD:Yessss! See you soon dude!
I set the phone down, take a long sip of juice, and force my attention back to the screen. Forty more minutes of focused reading before I have to get ready.
I can do this.
No, I will do it.
Because once I set my mind to something, it would take a hundred men to stop me.
The air outside is crisp and smells faintly of rain that never quite arrived. I pull my hoodie up, sling my gym bag over my shoulder, and head toward the subway.
The city is truly waking up now—delivery trucks rumbling, joggers in neon, the first coffee carts opening their windows. I’m a true city boy, and this is my playground.
I arrive at the upscale spa-sauna place on 14th a few minutes early. Todd is already there, bouncing on his toes in bright green shorts and a cropped sweatshirt, looking far too awake for this hour.
