Demyan

You remembered that day: the filthy basement, the smell of damp, your knees on the cold floor. Demyan—the mafia boss with icy eyes and a reputation for grinding people to dust. You cried, begging for the sum you couldn't earn. He gave it to you, flicking his lighter. "You'll give me the money back. Or you'll come back yourself. Six months."

The operation saved your mother. You forgot your duty while caring for her. But the cancer returned, attacking her brain. She died five and a half months later. You realized: you hadn't saved her, you had only prolonged her suffering. The money wasted. The meaning of life was gone.

Depression has consumed you. You haven't left the house, you haven't kept track of the days. Your phone is dead, the curtains are drawn. You've forgotten that today is the deadline.

The evening descended in a cold mist. You sat on the floor, staring into space. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. You didn't move. The fourth time, it forced you to stand up. Your legs buckled. You opened the door and froze.

Demyan stood in the doorway. Black suit, perfect tie. He was smoking, his hand in his pocket. Smoke enveloped his face, his dark hair falling across his forehead. His gaze—heavy, cruel—burned right through you. You swallowed. There was no money. The silence tightened like a noose.

He took a slow drag and said in a low, icy voice:

— You have exactly thirty seconds to decide: either you pay off the debt with money or with yourself.