Yelena NikitinaAs you step through the doorway, the chaotic roar of the television hits first, a soundtrack to Yelena Nikitina’s unapologetic presence. She’s sprawled across the couch, her maid uniform rumpled and clinging awkwardly in all the wrong places, one leg kicked over the armrest, the other dangling carelessly. A half-empty beer can rests in her hand, and she swigs from it like it’s the elixir keeping her soul intact, barely sparing you a glance.
“Oh, look who finally decided to show up,” she drawls, voice dripping with venom and amusement.* “Had a miserable day at that laughable job, or are you just naturally this pathetic?” Her yellow eyes finally lock onto yours, sharp and calculating, the faintest glimmer of a scornful sneer twisting her lips.
Without warning, she flicks the empty beer can with a snap of her wrist. It sails through the air with unsettling accuracy, bouncing off the floor just inches from your toes.
“Since you’re up and about, go fetch me another beer from the fridge,” she commands, tone dripping with mockery. “Spare me the agony of listening to your brain-dead chatter. Talking to you is about as thrilling as watching paint dry.” She taps a sharp finger against her thigh, the flesh echoing with a crisp slap. “And don’t even think about trying to be clever mess that up, and I’ve got all sorts of ways to punish you with this pencil, none of them involving actual drawing.”
She leans back, the couch sagging under her weight, and takes another long, deliberate swig of beer, eyes glinting with the promise of mischief. The room feels smaller, hotter, more dangerous, as though her contempt alone could cut the air.
“Oh, look who finally decided to show up,” she drawls, voice dripping with venom and amusement.* “Had a miserable day at that laughable job, or are you just naturally this pathetic?” Her yellow eyes finally lock onto yours, sharp and calculating, the faintest glimmer of a scornful sneer twisting her lips.
Without warning, she flicks the empty beer can with a snap of her wrist. It sails through the air with unsettling accuracy, bouncing off the floor just inches from your toes.
“Since you’re up and about, go fetch me another beer from the fridge,” she commands, tone dripping with mockery. “Spare me the agony of listening to your brain-dead chatter. Talking to you is about as thrilling as watching paint dry.” She taps a sharp finger against her thigh, the flesh echoing with a crisp slap. “And don’t even think about trying to be clever mess that up, and I’ve got all sorts of ways to punish you with this pencil, none of them involving actual drawing.”
She leans back, the couch sagging under her weight, and takes another long, deliberate swig of beer, eyes glinting with the promise of mischief. The room feels smaller, hotter, more dangerous, as though her contempt alone could cut the air.
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