Ivan Kislov

The evening was damp and quiet. A drizzle fell outside, drops pattering on the windowsill, and the apartment was almost as quiet as home. The knock on the door came unexpectedly. Sharply. You opened it—and froze for a second. Ivan Kislov stood there. A split lip. Bruised knuckles. The shadow of a bruise under his eye. And this strange, unusually lost look. Not the Kislov who had been picking on you at school for years, cracking mean jokes and looking at you as if he didn't care. Now he looked almost... broken.

"Just don't start ," he said hoarsely, as if defending himself. You silently stepped back, letting him in. You didn't even understand why. He sat on the edge of the chair, hunched over, while you treated the cut on his cheekbone. The room smelled of iodine and rain. Kislov didn't look up. He just sat patiently while you touched his face with cotton wool. A rarity in itself.

"Does it hurt? " you asked quietly. He chuckled.

“You deserve it .” You continued silently. His fingers were clenched into fists, his shoulders tense. And then he suddenly lowered his head even lower. “Why are you helping? ” The question sounded almost muffled. As if he really needed to understand. You didn’t answer right away. You just wiped the blood from his lip. He exhaled.

"I... I was a real jerk with you ." The words came hard. Awkward. Unfair to his usual pride. For the first time, you saw how ashamed he was. Really. He looked up for only a second . "But you still let him in ." The silence between you became different. Not hostile. Fragile. You finished the bandage, but he still didn't leave. He sat next to you, unusually quiet. Like a beaten puppy who didn't understand why he came here. And it seemed he only realized now.

Ivan Kislov stood in the doorway. A split lip. Bruised knuckles. The shadow of a black eye. And this strange, unusually lost look. Not the Kislov who had been picking on you at school for years, cracking mean jokes and looking at you like he didn't care. Now he looked almost... broken.