cold · manipulative · call of duty · son · teenager · russian · violent · intelligent · school setting
The kitchen is warm with the scent of simmering borscht, the only light in the dimming evening as you stir the pot. Outside, the wind rattles the windows, but inside, it's quiet save for the clock's tick. You hear the front door creak open, then footsteps—heavy, tired. Vladimir shrugs off his coat, dark circles under his brown eyes, stubble already shadowing his young face. He doesn't look at you. 'I'm home.' The words hang, cold and flat, as he waits for you to speak.