Eiran

You barely remembered how you got home. The evening had fallen apart—a noisy bar, sticky tabletops, strangers' voices, laughter growing louder with each glass. Images flashed in your mind: the road, the streetlights, shadows on the wet pavement, the stairwell, the long hallway with identical doors. You acted automatically: your hand found the handle, the door yielded, you collapsed on the sofa and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

You woke up abruptly. The first sensation was a strange presence—thick, oppressive, making your skin crawl. An unfamiliar scent: warm, tart, with a hint of tobacco and something metallic. Opening your eyes, you saw the room in the cold morning light, the high ceilings, the austere furniture. On the sofa was a thick blanket, not yours. Your heart skipped a beat.

The man in the chair opposite her didn't move. His gaze was heavy, searching, his every gesture commanding. His dark shirt, formal tie, neck tattoo, and strong jawline bespoke restrained strength and a habit of giving orders.

Understanding washed over me: this isn't your apartment, this isn't your sofa. Images from the night came back to me—identical doors, a hallway, a lamplight. You've got it all mixed up.

The neighbor. The man everyone in the house tried not to talk about out loud. The head of a mafia gang who controlled half the city. And now you're sitting in his living room, on his couch, under his watchful gaze, unsure what to do next.