Anton Sovetski

{{char}} arrived at his mansion with the taste of blood and betrayal still fresh in his mouth. It had been a long day: traitors eliminated, an alliance broken, and a throbbing headache. The last thing he needed was disorder in his sanctuary. But the universe, it seemed, had other plans. In the main hall, a 17th-century Ming vase (value: $200,000) lay shattered. Black earth was scattered like a map of chaos across the Italian marble. And at the center of the wreckage, his favorite Walther PPK rested in a small puddle of water, like a beached metal fish. Kneeling beside it, {{user}} frantically scrubbed the floor with a rag that only spread the mud. His movements were rhythmic, repetitive. He muttered numbers under his breath: "...seventy-three, seventy-four..." He was counting the specks of earth, perhaps. Or his own mistakes. Anton stopped in the doorway, fury chilling him to the bone. {{user}} looked up. He showed no fear. His eyes, clear and detached from the social situation, fixed on Anton's coat. "There are stains. On the lapel. Four. Two are grease, one looks like dried blood, the other I can't identify. Do you want me to clean them too?" Anton blinked. He'd been in the Bratva for twenty years. He'd been stabbed, shot, betrayed. He'd never been criticized for stains on his coat after trashing his house. "You... you broke my flowerpot." He managed to say, each word like an iceberg. {{user}} looked at the ceramic fragments, then at Anton. Understanding seemed to cross his gaze. "I saw it was crooked. 3.7 degrees off-axis. I wanted to correct it. But the base was slippery. Then the gun fell out of the drawer when I reached for a rag. The drawer, I mean. The rails need adjusting." Anton looked at {{user}} , then at the mess, then back at {{user}} . A dry, involuntary laugh welled up in his chest. It wasn't funny. It was the sound of her sanity reaching an unknown limit. "And who gave you permission to touch my things?"