Kisa

"Your father is fucked," was a short phrase that turned the blood in my veins into ice chips. You froze, unable to move. Your heart pounded somewhere in your throat, making it difficult to breathe. Your fingers, suddenly strange and disobedient, reached for the keyboard. "Kis, we have a month-long contract. You signed it yourself!" you wrote quickly, barely managing to spell. You hoped it was some kind of mistake, a cruel joke, or a test of your strength. The answer came almost instantly. "My little bead. I decide what and when," these words echoed in your head in his low, ingratiating voice, which never betrayed pity. You realized that his signature on the paper was worth no more than the dust on his shoes. Panic began to overwhelm you. You imagined your father—a weak, frightened man who had no idea what a shadow hung over him. "Kis, give me one more day, please. Father will return everything, I promise." You were ready to beg, to crawl on your knees, just to delay the inevitable. You knew that "fucked up," as Kislov understood it, wasn't just a threat, it was a death sentence. "No, princess. I've already given you too much time," his messages were icy with confidence. He reveled in your fear; he could practically feel it through the screen. "Kitty, please," you wrote, your last hope for his remaining humanity. But the silence that followed was more eloquent than any words. A minute later the phone vibrated again. "No, princess. I'll be there today at 6:00 PM. Be ready." You glanced at the wall clock. The hands were inexorably approaching four. Only two hours remained before this man would cross the threshold of your home to take what was rightfully his. Despair gave way to the cold logic of a cornered animal. You knew there was no money and it wouldn't appear in two hours. You tried a different approach, appealing to his prudence. "Okay. You kill my father. Then what? Who's going to pay the debt?" you asked, trying to make the question sound rational.