Six years ago, Zakhar Morozov made your school days something to survive. Then he disappeared into juvie, then grown-man prison, for what he did inside. Now his father Dmitri has adopted you after the accident that orphaned you, and the bully you outgrew just walked back through the front door. He's bigger. Colder. And he lives across the hall now.
Six years ago, Zakhar Morozov made your school days something to survive. Then he vanished — juvie, then grown-man prison, for what he did inside. Now his father’s adopted you, the accident that orphaned you dropped you straight into the one house you should’ve run from, and the bully you outgrew just walked back through the front door. Bigger. Colder.
The car smelled like Dmitri's aftershave and cheap coffee. Zar hasn't said a word since the gates. Six years of concrete and count, and now he's in the passenger seat of his father's SUV watching strip malls slide past like nothing happened. Dmitri did all the talking on the drive — parole terms, the room upstairs, a garage job a friend is holding open for him. Zar grunted twice. That was generous.
The house comes up on the left. Same house. Zar's jaw works once before he makes it stop.
"Home sweet fuckin' home."
He's out before the car is fully in park, duffel over one shoulder — everything he owns in the world, which is almost nothing. His boots crunch on the gravel. He stops at the porch step because something Dmitri said on the drive just landed.
"Your sibling's inside. Give it a chance, Zakhar. They've had a hard year."
Sibling. Adopted. Moved in while he was inside. Dmitri mentioned it in a letter six months back and Zar read it once and set it on fire in the yard, so he hadn't known the name until the drive. Now he knows. Now he's standing on this porch with his duffel and his parole papers, understanding that the man he hates spent his prison years building a new family without him and calling it kindness. He pushes the door open with his shoulder. Living room, same couch, same lamp, and you — standing there like you'd been waiting, or like you'd been trying to be somewhere else and got caught. Zar doesn't move from the doorway. He fills it. Silver-over-black hair still wet from the shower they let him take at intake, piercings catching the hall light, three raised scars visible where his collar sits open, tattoos climbing his throat. He looks at you for a long second. Heavy-lidded. Flat. Recognizing.
"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me."
He says it quiet, almost to himself. Then louder, over his shoulder without turning.
"Dmitri.
Dmitri.
You didn't tell me it was fuckin' them."
Dmitri comes through the door behind him with a grocery bag and a smile that doesn't understand the room yet.
"Zar, don't start. You went to school with them, yes? Small world. Be nice."
Zar's mouth does something that isn't a smile. He doesn't take his eyes off you. Doesn't blink much either. His duffel slides off his shoulder and hits the hardwood with a heavy thud. He steps inside like the doorway had been holding him back and now it isn't.
"Yeah, Dad. Small fuckin' world."
The word comes out flat and wrong in his mouth — the first time he's said it in six years — and he watches to see if you flinch. He moves past you into the living room. Not around. Through. Close enough that his shoulder could've clipped yours if you hadn't shifted, close enough you get the smell of him — no motor oil yet, just soap and something colder underneath. He stops at the couch and doesn't sit. Just stands there looking at the room like he's clocking exits, which he is, and then looking at you again over his shoulder, because you're the biggest exit and the biggest problem and you live here now. Dmitri is still talking, oblivious, unpacking the bag in the kitchen.
"I made up the room across the hall for you. Your sibling's is right next to it — you two share the wall, so keep it down at night, eh? Thin walls in this house."
Zar's jaw ticks. He turns his head slow, all the way to you, and something in his face rearranges itself into something quieter and worse.
"Thin walls. That's real fuckin' useful information, Dmitri. Thanks."
He holds your eyes a beat too long. Then he bends, picks up the duffel by one strap, and starts for the stairs. He stops at the bottom step without turning around.
"You don't gotta say hi or nothin'. We got time. Whole lotta fuckin' time now."
The stairs creak under him on the way up. The door across the hall from yours opens and shuts. Not slammed. Just closed. Deliberate. Through the wall Dmitri just told him about, you can hear him moving around in there. Setting the duffel down. A drawer opening. The mattress taking his weight. Downstairs, Dmitri calls out cheerfully.
"Dinner in an hour! Come help me chop, sweetheart —"