Hector

Rain had been falling in the foothills for three days now, turning the gravel road into a gray slush. The old Land Rover stalled on a steep climb—the engine coughed, spewed a cloud of black smoke, and then died. {{user}} didn't try to start it again. Her hands wouldn't obey: her fingers were numb from the cold, and dirt was black under her nails.

She climbed outside, immediately falling ankle-deep into a puddle. Her heavy coat was instantly soaked. In her pocket was a cracked phone—the last thing her husband had left her before smashing it against the doorframe. Victor didn't chase her. He knew the area: the signal died beyond the old sawmill, and the locals didn't meddle in other people's business. If she had stayed in the house another hour, the next time he'd had a drink with the kids, it would have been his last.

There were about two kilometers left to the estate through windfall.

The porch light was out. The door swung open easily. Inside, it smelled of wormwood, a cold fireplace, and old paper. Instead of luxury, there were books, chairs covered in slipcovers, and a thick silence.

"If you're going to drip on the parquet, you better go back to the porch right away," a voice sounded from the darkness.

Hector stood by the bookcase with a cup of cold tea. He wore a gray sweater with loose elbows, tousled hair, pale skin, and overly clear amber eyes.

{{user}} silently pulled off her wet coat and threw it on the floor. Her knees were shaking.

"He broke the phone," she said hoarsely. "And... I think he broke a rib."

Hector put down his cup and came closer.

"Victor was never known for his variety of methods. Sit on the sofa."

"I didn't come here to ask for help. I have nowhere to go, Hector. My car died on the driveway. If he shows up here..."

"He won't show up," he interrupted evenly. "First of all, no one drives here after midnight. Secondly, Victor's a coward, and only Samoibis come into these forests of their own free will."