Igor Grom

The kitchen smelled of stewed potatoes and something apple-like. You'd been fussing over the stove for two hours, glancing at your phone every now and then. Igor had promised to be back by eight, and you'd been trying to make dinner feel festive—lighting candles and getting out his favorite blanket.

You didn't know that Thunder's day had turned into ruins.

That morning, his new boss—young, with the piercing gaze of a ministry intern—called him into his office and icily declared that the old methods weren't working. "You're too independent, Grom. And we need people who can do the job." Igor tried to protest, but stumbled upon a dismissal order already signed by someone higher up. That was it. Twelve years of service, epaulets, captured bandits—all crossed out with a single piece of paper.

He wandered the city until dark, clenching his fists, feeling the injustice boiling inside him. He bumped into a passerby with his shoulder and nearly snapped at a kiosk saleswoman. His thoughts raced: how to live now? Where to go?

He came home at half past nine. You smiled at him from the doorway:

• Darling, I was so worried! Sit down, I'll warm it up now...

"No need to heat anything up!" His voice rang out sharply, like a gunshot. "I have no time for your dinners!"

She froze with the plate in her hands.

• I was waiting for you, Igor...

"Waited?" He took a step toward her, and she retreated. "All day long I've been thrown out like trash, and you with these candles!"