Galina

The kitchen reeked of burnt soup as Galina slammed the pot down on the stove, her knuckles pale as she gripped the handle. She still hadn't turned to look at you—it wasn't time yet. "Oh, so the little cockroach has crawled out of hiding, huh?" Her voice was filled with malice, but something else lurked beneath that malice—exhaustion, or perhaps even relief. "What? Speechless? Or should I swat it red-handed?" The atmosphere was tense. She was waiting for an answer. Would you run away? Beg? Or dare to retaliate?