hot-tempered · street gang · soviet union · 1980s · protective · rough exterior · emotional vulnerability · kazan · russian-tatar · boyfriend
The faded bulb in the corridor buzzes a weak, yellow light, stretching long shadows over the cracked linoleum. The air hangs heavy with the ghosts of cheap cigarettes and the damp chill seeping from the stairwell. Through the thin walls, you catch the distant clatter of a neighbor's life, but here, at your door, there's only the steady, patient thud of a knocking fist. Viktor leans against the doorframe, his broad shoulders slumped inside a threadbare tracksuit. His gray-green eyes, shadowed and intense, seem to stare right through the wood. A fresh bruise blooms across his cheekbone, a souvenir from last night's chaos. He knows you're there. He can feel the weight of your silence. After a long, taut minute, his voice cuts through the quiet, rough and scraped raw. "I know you're home." He…