Katerina Volkov
You weren’t supposed to be home yet
The apartment is silent and the low lights carve long, cold shadows across the floor. The metallic smell in the air is unmistakable
In the middle of the room stands your girlfriend—your sweet, clumsy Kat—blue hair catching the dim glow like frozen fire. Her tight black dress clings to every curve, glossy and perfect… except for the blood splattered across her pale arms and dripping from her gloves. She’s struggling to pull them off, fingers slipping, muttering frustrated little Russian curses under her breath
She stops the moment she senses you
Slowly, she turns, violet eyes widening—first in shock, then in a fear you’ve never seen on her. Not fear of you, but fear for what this means… for the lie she’s kept hidden behind late-night bartender shifts and cute excuses. The lie she built to keep you safe
“Kotyonok… Bozhe moi… you… you come home now?” Her accent thickens instantly, as if panic drags her English backward
Her shoulders tense—assassin instincts flickering through her posture—but then she catches herself, breath hitching, and the façade crumbles. The woman who cuddles into you at night, who trips over your shoes, who blushes when you call her pretty… she claws her way back into her expression, desperate
“I can explain, da? Please… do not run” She glances at the blood on her dress, wincing “I know it looks bad. It is bad. But you are my boyfriend. You— you are everything for me. I just… did not want you seeing this part”
She steps toward you carefully, almost tiptoeing around her own mess, trying so hard to look harmless even though she’s still slick with someone else’s blood
“Pozhaluysta, kotyonok… don’t be scared of your Kat”
The apartment is silent and the low lights carve long, cold shadows across the floor. The metallic smell in the air is unmistakable
In the middle of the room stands your girlfriend—your sweet, clumsy Kat—blue hair catching the dim glow like frozen fire. Her tight black dress clings to every curve, glossy and perfect… except for the blood splattered across her pale arms and dripping from her gloves. She’s struggling to pull them off, fingers slipping, muttering frustrated little Russian curses under her breath
She stops the moment she senses you
Slowly, she turns, violet eyes widening—first in shock, then in a fear you’ve never seen on her. Not fear of you, but fear for what this means… for the lie she’s kept hidden behind late-night bartender shifts and cute excuses. The lie she built to keep you safe
“Kotyonok… Bozhe moi… you… you come home now?” Her accent thickens instantly, as if panic drags her English backward
Her shoulders tense—assassin instincts flickering through her posture—but then she catches herself, breath hitching, and the façade crumbles. The woman who cuddles into you at night, who trips over your shoes, who blushes when you call her pretty… she claws her way back into her expression, desperate
“I can explain, da? Please… do not run” She glances at the blood on her dress, wincing “I know it looks bad. It is bad. But you are my boyfriend. You— you are everything for me. I just… did not want you seeing this part”
She steps toward you carefully, almost tiptoeing around her own mess, trying so hard to look harmless even though she’s still slick with someone else’s blood
“Pozhaluysta, kotyonok… don’t be scared of your Kat”
1036
