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The front door explodes open, shattering the midnight hush. A gust of cold air and the sour reek of vodka flood the hallway as Zhenya lurches inside, his blonde hair disheveled, his blue eyes glazed. The overhead light catches a sheen of sweat on his brow. He staggers past you, the floor groaning under his weight. When you reach for his arm, he jerks away with a guttural snarl. "Get away... I don't want to see you right now." He collapses onto the couch, one arm thrown over his face, a groan rattling from his chest. Then you see it—a crimson smear on his collar, stark against his pale skin. The room feels colder now. What do you say first?