Chapter Text
You take the piece of paper Yesenin hands you with a faint sense of uncertainty, glancing down at the number with a small, lingering frown. It feels oddly fragile between your fingers, like it could crumple at the slightest pressure. His name is written neatly at the top, or at least, as neatly as his shaking hand would allow. The letters wobble slightly, uneven and imperfect, betraying the exhaustion he tries so hard to scoff off. You trace them with your eyes for a moment longer than necessary, committing them to memory without really meaning to.
“Give me a call, my good man,” Yesenin says, flashing you a rare, tired smile as he pats your shoulder a little too roughly. The gesture is familiar, almost brotherly, but there’s something final in it that makes your chest tighten.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me when the world went to shit. I’ll see you around.”
He lingers in the doorway for just a second longer than necessary, as if waiting for something. Another word, a reason to stay, maybe even for you to stop him. Then he finally steps outside, the warm air swallowing him whole.
You return the gesture with a single nod, restrained and stiff, before closing the door behind him. The latch clicks into place, loud in the sudden quiet, echoing through the house like punctuation at the end of a sentence. You exhale slowly, like you’d been holding your breath without realizing it, your shoulders sagging as the tension bleeds out of you.
His phone number.
The thought lingers as you look back down at the paper, turning it over once, then twice. You’re honestly surprised he even remembered it. Surprised he bothered to write it down at all, as if part of him expected this to be the last exchange between you. A part of you wonders if it would still work. If calling it would even reach him, or if the line would be dead like so many others left behind in the aftermath.
Another part of you wonders if you’d ever actually try, if you’d have the nerve to hear his voice on the other end.
Would you call?
Probably…you should. The word should sits heavy in your mind, more obligation than promise.
You shake your head, pushing the thought away before it can take root, and set the slip of paper down on the table beside the phone. It looks small there, almost insignificant, dwarfed by the dust and clutter of everyday survival. You tell yourself you’ll pin it up somewhere later, somewhere visible, if you remember. If it matters enough to remember.
So…this is it, huh?
One month of hiding in your basement with a handful of strangers. Sharing food and fear and long stretches of suffocating silence, and suddenly the world is just…better now. Fixed. As if it can be stitched back together with a single radio announcement. Like it all meant something in the end. Like the nights spent awake, counting breaths and footsteps overhead, were worth it.
So why does the quiet feel so wrong?
The house is still, almost unnaturally so, and instead of comfort it brings unease. The kind that crawls under your skin and settles there. Why does the relief everyone else seems to feel leave such a bitter, aching disappointment lodged deep in your chest, heavy and unresolved? You should be grateful. You are grateful. And yet, something about this ending feels incomplete.
You spent the day watching everyone leave, one by one, your eyes following them until they disappeared down the street. With each departure, your mind inevitably drifts back to some of them, replaying moments you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.
The widow, surprisingly, sticks around after you help her bury her husband’s body. The work is slow and quiet, the earth stubborn beneath your hands. She doesn’t say much while you dig, just murmurs thanks in a quiet, broken voice that sounds like it might shatter if she speaks any louder. She stays after that. Stays when you’re all forced back into your basement, stays through the waiting and the uncertainty, until the radio finally confirms it’s safe to come out of hiding. When she does leave, she hugs you first. Tight. Brief. Desperate. Her hands clutch at your jacket like you might vanish if she lets go.
You don’t understand why.
What did you do to deserve affection from a stranger? You didn’t even know her name. You didn’t save him. You didn’t save anyone. You just…stood there. You were present. Somehow, that had been enough for her.
The cheerful man lingers next, as if refusing to let the moment end. He offers to help you clean up the house like nothing ever happened. Like blood hadn’t soaked into the floors. Like fear hadn’t lived in these walls for as long as this was going on. He talks easily, forcing normalcy into the air, and for a moment it almost works. Almost.
He leaves shortly after you decline, his smile faltering only slightly as he steps outside. You wonder, fleetingly, if he felt like he owed you something for letting him hide out in your basement with you during the worst of the apocalypse.
He didn’t.
You barely did anything.
Everyone from the fortune teller to the stoner filter out throughout the day, one by one, until the house feels too big again. Too empty. Rooms you hadn’t thought about in weeks suddenly echo when you pass through them. Yesenin is the last to go. Isn’t it funny that you only learned his name because of a stupid piece of paper? That people can share something as intimate as survival with you and still remain strangers once it’s over.
Still, not everyone leaves.
The teenager moved into the living room almost immediately after the basement emptied out, like she’s been waiting for her chance. She dragged her things up the stairs in short, stubborn trips. An overstuffed backpack, a blanket that’s seen better days, a plastic bag knotted at the handles.
She didn't ask. Didn't hesitate. She just claimed the couch with a quiet certainty, spreading her things out like the decision was made long before anyone ever said it out loud. Like leaving never even crossed her mind.
You don’t blame her.
From the scraps of information you managed to piece together. Half-finished sentences, muttered complaints, the way she flinched at raised voices…her home life wasn’t exactly stable. The way she talked about it, or didn’t, suggested she’d learned early how to make herself scarce. And after everything that happened, after the sirens and the bodies and the days spent hiding underground, she might not even have a home left to return to. The thought settles uncomfortably in your chest.
Kicking her out wouldn’t just make you an asshole. It would make you the last in a long line of people who decided she wasn’t their problem.
So she stays.
...
Then there’s the wife of that man.
Everyone called them “the couple” when they first arrived, as if the word alone made it true. As if standing beside someone automatically meant safety, partnership, love. It didn’t take long to realize how wrong that label was. How misleading. You saw the signs early. The way she flinched when he raised his voice even slightly, the way her shoulders drew in on themselves like she was bracing for impact. The way she stayed quiet when he spoke, eyes down, hands always busy with something small and unnecessary.
You noticed how she watched him more than anything else. Not with affection, but with calculation. Measuring his moods. Anticipating them.
And when you woke up to the sound of a slap, sharp and unmistakable, followed by muffled yelling from the kitchen, something in you snapped clean in half.
You didn’t care anymore.
When the asshole’s blood splattered across your walls, you didn’t stop to think about the fact that he was human. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t weigh consequences or morality or any of the things you’d once believed mattered. Some people simply deserve to die.
He was one of them.
Afterward, his wife seemed…unmoored. Like a person cut loose from something that had been holding her upright for far too long. She moved through the house like a ghost, eyes unfocused, expression blank. She barely spoke. Barely ate. Sometimes she sat in the same place for hours, staring at nothing at all, and you wondered if she was even still there or if whatever he’d done to her over the years had finally hollowed her out completely.
There were moments you caught her flinching anyway, long after he was gone. At sudden noises. At footsteps behind her. As if her body hadn’t yet caught up to the truth.
But slowly, agonizingly slowly, she began to open up. Not with words, not really. Just small things. A longer gaze held. A breath that didn’t sound so tight. The way her posture eased, just a fraction, when she realized no one was going to shout at her for taking up space.
You could see it in her eyes first.
Relief.
Gratitude.
Like an unbearable weight had finally been lifted from her shoulder and she was only just learning how to stand without it.
The idea of someone feeling thankful for another person’s murder is almost laughable. The thought circles in your head, hollow and bitter, because it feels too neat. Too easy. As if gratitude could cleanse something like that. As if taking one life for the “right” reasons could balance the scales.
Does one justified killing suddenly make you a good person?
The question doesn’t sit well. It festers. Because if that were true, then what about all the other humans you killed in cold blood, mistaking them for visitors? The ones you never hesitated over.
The ones you didn’t wait to see clearly before pulling the trigger. Fear had made the decisions for you then, and you let it.
What about the kindergarten teacher you shot straight through the eyes because of one sign? One detail out of place. One moment where you chose survival over certainty.
You remember the way she begged, her voice breaking as she sobbed and clutched that stupid scarf like it could save her. Like if she held onto something familiar, something soft, the world might remember what she was.
A teacher. A person. A Human. You didn’t let yourself think about any of that then. You told yourself hesitation would get you killed.
She ended up being a human.
…
There was one other person who stayed behind after everyone else left.
That foreigner.
He was the one you worried about the most.
Not because he caused trouble. If anything, he was one of the gentler ones. Quiet to the point of near invisibility. He tried not to take up space, tried not to be noticed, as if that alone might keep him safe. What worried you was the language barrier. God, the language barrier. It turned every interaction into guesswork and hesitation, made even the simplest things feel fragile.
You only learned he was Georgian thanks to the cashier girl, who somehow recognized the language even though she could not understand a single word he said. You remember thinking how strange that was. How even in the middle of the world falling apart, people still noticed small things like accents and cadence. Like pieces of normal life stubbornly refusing to die.
You tried to keep your distance from him. You really did. You told yourself it was practical. Safer. Less complicated. But it was difficult from the moment he arrived.
He showed up at your door with tears streaming down his face, his mouth crudely wired shut. The sight alone made your stomach drop, a cold, sinking weight settling there instantly. You knew right then that he was going to be a problem. Not because he was dangerous, but because you did not know how to help him. Because whatever had been done to him was so unmistakably deliberate. So cruel. It was the kind of harm that left no room for misunderstanding.
Still, you let him in. You were not heartless. You guided him to the bathroom and handed him a pair of scissors, turning away as if that was enough, as if distance could make it less your responsibility. As if that was all you owed him.
But just as you were about to leave, you looked back.
He was frozen in place. Hands shaking. Eyes wide and glossy with fear. He had not even lifted the scissors. He looked lost, truly lost, like a child who had wandered too far from home and did not know how to ask for help. Like he was bracing himself for you to change your mind. For you to decide he was too much trouble. For you to throw him back outside. Or worse.
You sighed and walked back into the bathroom.
Helping him properly was not something you usually did. That was the strange part. You surprised yourself with how steady your hands were as you disinfected his wounds, how carefully you cut away the wire and tended to the raw, swollen skin beneath it. He flinched at every touch but did not pull away. You gave him a bag of frozen peas to press against his mouth and watched as he tensed, then slowly relaxed once the cold settled in. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little. You almost laughed at yourself then. Might as well tuck him into bed and read him a bedtime story while you were at it.
And maybe that kindness was what scared you the most.
Maybe it was because he did not speak Russian.
Maybe it was the moment he tried to speak at all he looked at you like he was waiting for punishment. Like any mistake, any wrong sound, would earn him the door. Or worse. Earn him the wire again.
The way his eyes tracked you, cautious and pleading all at once, made something twist uncomfortably in your chest.
The world is fucked up.
Really fucked up.
Doing something like that to another human being. Taking away their voice. Their ability to speak, to beg, to explain. There was something especially cruel about it. Something intimate in the violence. Something that lingered with you long after you left the bathroom, clinging to your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to shove it aside.
And for reasons you did not want to think too hard about, he stayed with you after that.
And you did not tell him to leave.
You suppose he doesn’t really know how to get back to Georgia.
Trains wouldn’t be running again for a long time, if they ever did at all. Airports were probably worse. Chaotic, dangerous, unreliable. Boats weren’t much better. Anything involving travel felt risky now, like tempting fate for no good reason. The world had changed too much for travel to feel like anything other than a gamble with your life.
Fine. Whatever.
He isn’t much of a hassle anyway.
He likes to talk, sure. A lot, actually. Long strings of words you can’t understand, spoken softly, sometimes animatedly, sometimes with that distant look people get when they’re thinking about home. Sometimes he laughs quietly at things you can’t hear, or smile at nothing at all, as if a memory somewhere far away has reached him across impossible distance. And strangely enough, you don’t mind it. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen. To let someone else fill the silence for once instead of feeling obligated to do it yourself.
Sometimes, you even talk back.
You know he won’t understand you. You know he can’t respond in any meaningful way. But he listens anyway, nodding along like he does understand, like your words still matter simply because you said them. Like the sound of a voice is enough to anchor him here, even if comprehension is impossible. There’s something comforting about that. Something uncomplicated. No judgment. No expectation. Just presence.
Anyway.
You eventually decide to make your way through the house, checking each room to make sure nothing important was left behind. Someone always forgets something. A jacket, a bag, a piece of themselves. You run your hands over dusty shelves and counters, glance under furniture, lift blankets, and peek into corners. The house feels too quiet now. Too empty. The echoes of people who were here. Their voices, their small routines, their fear. It clings to the walls like smoke you can’t quite blow away.
You make a mental note that the place desperately needs a deep clean. No matter how much you aired it out, the scent of death still lingers in the walls, in the floors, in the fabric of the furniture. It clings to everything, heavy and wrong, like a presence that refuses to leave. The odor isn’t just physical, it’s memory. It’s consequence, it’s every horrible thing that happened here. And it unsettles you more than you want to admit, gnawing at the edges of your calm, whispering that some things can’t be scrubbed out, no matter how hard you try.
But not right now.
Right now, you need a nap. Badly.
All day you’ve done nothing but talk. And talk. And talk some more. Answering questions, giving reassurances, listening to stories you didn’t ask for but didn’t have the heart to interrupt. Your introverted mind feels completely fried. You can practically feel your patience leaking out of you, trickling down your spine like water through a sieve. Even the thought of more words makes your head ache.
As you walk through the hallway, your feet dragging slightly from exhaustion, you pause when you notice the kitchen door is slightly ajar.
You hesitate before peeking inside.
The wife is sitting at the table.
The woman- not the wife. You correct yourself almost immediately. She deserves better than being reduced to that. The word feels like a chain, a label meant to confine her to someone else’s shadow. She sits perfectly still, hands resting on the edge of the table, staring down at the tabletop like it might give her answers if she looks hard enough, like the scratches and stains might whisper something that has so far escaped her.
When she notices you watching, she lifts her head and offers you a small, exhausted smile. Her lips are cracked, her eyes dull with fatigue, but there’s something softer there now. Something quieter. It isn’t gratitude or relief alone. It’s a fragile acknowledgment that the world isn’t quite as suffocating as it had been, at least for this moment. Something human that had been buried under fear and pain.
“Hello,” she says gently. “I hope you don’t mind if I stay here for a day or two. I don’t…really have anywhere else to go.”
Her voice is calm, measured, but there is a sadness threaded through it that feels permanent. Not sharp or fresh. Settled. Like something that has lived inside her for a long time and learned how to stay quiet.
You let out a tired sigh and pull out the chair next to her before you even fully think it through. The movement feels automatic, like your body made the decision before your mind could argue with it. You sit, then immediately stop yourself from calling her that in your head again. Wife. The word feels wrong now. Too heavy. Too tangled up in him, in what he took from her. She deserves better than to be reduced to something he owned.
Of course, you don’t know her name.
You barely know anyone’s names.
You never wanted to. Getting attached was dangerous. People died too easily. Too suddenly. By your hands or someone else’s. Names made people real, gave them weight and history. Names made loss hurt more, and you had already seen enough of that.
But now…
Now it’s safe. Supposedly.
The word feels flimsy, like it might tear if you pull on it too hard. Still, you glance around the quiet kitchen, at the untouched cup in front of her, at the way she holds herself like she is afraid of asking for too much.
Would it really hurt to learn the names of the people still standing in your house?
“Don’t worry about it,” you murmur, your tone coming out more indifferent than you mean it to. Exhaustion dulls the edges of your voice. “Stay as long as you need.” You pause, then add, “As long as you don’t mind the couch or something.”
You crack a small smile, forcing a bit of levity into the air, hoping it lands gently instead of sounding hollow.
She smiles back.
It is faint, hesitant, but real.
“Of course, sir,” she says quietly. “Your kindness has already been more than I deserve.”
You pause.
Then, without thinking before you can stop yourself, you speak.
“Mikhail,” you mumble. “My name is Mikhail. And don’t call me ‘sir.’ It makes me feel old.”
The words hang in the room, fragile and exposed.
It’s what you used to call your father. What you were forced to call him. A word that never meant respect, only distance. Authority. Fear. A wall between people who should have been closer, a label meant to keep someone small.
No one should have to call anyone that.
Even if it means giving away your name.
The woman looks up at you thoughtfully, her eyes steady, as if she understands exactly how much effort it took for you to offer something so personal. Your name still floats between you, light but weighty, like a small promise.
After a moment, she nods gently.
“Tasha,” she says. “My name is Tasha.” There is a pause, then a faint, uncertain smile, like a candle flickering to life in a quiet room. “It’s nice to finally meet you, I suppose?”
You nod back, suddenly very aware of how awkward you feel. Too aware of your hands, your posture, the stiffness of your shoulders, the way your legs press into the chair. Sitting here, having a real conversation instead of retreating like you usually would, feels almost dangerous. Exposing yourself is risky, but also…necessary.
You stand abruptly, shoving your hands into your pockets to give them something to do. “Do you need anything else right now, Tasha?” you murmur. “I should probably check on the kid and her…foreign friend.”
She doesn’t take offense. If anything, she looks relieved. You recognize the way her shoulders ease, the subtle relaxation in her posture. Some people are good at reading when a conversation is over, and Tasha is one of them.
“I’m alright,” she says softly. “Thank you, Mikhail. For everything.”
You mumble a quiet “you’re welcome” and leave the kitchen door open as you step out, not bothering to close it behind you. The house already feels too closed in, too heavy with all the stories and losses it holds. The door left ajar is a small promise. A little room for air. For life.
You make your way toward the living room and knock once out of habit, then enter anyway. It is your house, after all.
The teenager is sitting cross-legged on the floor, dragging her fingers through the carpet as she sketches out rough shapes and symbols in the fibers. She doesn’t look up at first, absorbed in whatever small, private ritual she’s created to mark the quiet. When she does glance up, she frowns faintly, a crease of suspicion forming between her brows.
“What’s up, old man?” she asks with a bitter little scoff. “Finally gonna tell me to leave?”
There’s a sharpness to her words, but it doesn’t quite mask the fear underneath. The resignation. The way her shoulders tighten for a fraction of a second. You frown in response, picking up on it even though she’s trying not to show it.
“No,” you say plainly. “I just wanted to check on you two. Tasha’s going to be staying with us for a while, as well. Hopefully we can all figure out the space.”
She blinks.
“Wait- really?” She pauses, clearly caught off guard. Her voice lifts before she can stop it. “I can stay?” There’s a flicker of disbelief, of relief, in her tone. “Dude, that’s-” She cuts herself off, coughing awkwardly. “I mean. Whatever. Y’know. Cool.”
She smirks to herself, like she can’t quite believe it. Then she glances toward the kitchen. “And Tasha, huh? That’s the chick in the kitchen, right? I’m surprised you’re the one telling me her name. Usually it’s the other way around.”
She snickers, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Teenagers. Always trying to act tough. Always trying to hide the parts of themselves they’re afraid to show. You notice the way her foot taps the floor unconsciously, the small tremor in her fingers as she twirls a strand of hair around her hand. Underneath the attitude, she’s cautious. Vulnerable. Testing the water.
The foreigner, who has been sitting quietly on the couch the entire time, glances between the two of you with open curiosity. His gaze lingers on the teenager, then flicks back to you, tentative and unsure. You hesitate. Words feel clumsy here. You don’t know what he understands or how he interprets tone, and you’re painfully aware of the distance language creates.
So you don’t say anything.
Instead, you offer him a small smile and give him a thumbs-up, a simple gesture that might be enough to communicate that he’s welcome. That he’s safe. That he doesn’t need to worry.
He looks confused for a second, tilting his head as he tries to process it. Then he smiles back, warm and slightly awkward, mimicking the gesture with exaggerated enthusiasm. His thumb lifts with deliberate care, like he’s testing whether the gesture is allowed, whether it’s real, whether he can believe it.
The teenager giggles, shooting you a knowing look. “Dude, you’re hopeless,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to tell Ettore that he’s bunking here.”
You nod…then pause.
“Ettore?” you repeat slowly. The name feels strange on your tongue, foreign but soft in a way that makes it linger.
He looks up at the sound of it, eyes lighting up slightly as he stares at you with interest.
(“You said my name?”) he says, sounding almost amused. (“It can’t be that hard to pronounce, right? I like to think it’s simple. Or maybe you just like it. Well…maybe not.”)
You blink, caught off guard, not entirely sure how to respond. Words feel heavier when they carry identity. Names are important here. Somehow, even in this fractured little household, names matter.
After a moment, you point to yourself. Maybe he wants to know your name. Well, might as well just get it over with.
“Mikhail,” you say simply.
Both the teenager and Ettore freeze for a split second.
(“Mikhail?”) Ettore repeats, eyes widening. (“Wow, what a pretty name! I’m surprised you’d even tell us, considering how stoic you seem. Maybe I was right about you not being as much of a hermit as I thought.”)
There’s warmth in his tone, easy and unassuming. He tilts his head slightly, watching you as if he’s cataloging small details, trying to figure out what makes you tick.
The teenager, however, is having a very different reaction.
“Mikhail?” she snorts. “Bro, that’s like…the name of my dead dog.”
You honestly can’t tell if she’s joking.
She waves it off anyway. “Eh, whatever. Still beats calling you homeowner, or asshole with a shotgun…or blue sweater guy.” She squints at you critically. “Seriously, though. Even for a grown man, your fashion sense sucks ass.”
All you can do is sigh.
“Ha. Very funny,” you reply flatly, though the corner of your mouth twitches. Just a fraction.
She sticks her tongue out at you, then suddenly pauses. The mischievous grin creeps slowly across her face.
“Alright,” she says. “Guess my name, asshole.”
You blink. “Uh… I don’t know. Angelica?” you offer half-heartedly, the name feeling ridiculous even as it leaves your mouth.
She bursts out laughing, doubling over like you just said the funniest thing in the world.
That…wasn’t supposed to be funny.
“Angelica?” she gasps, still laughing. “Dude, do I look like a freaking Angelica?” She wipes away an imaginary tear, melodramatic and far too pleased with herself. “We spent a month hiding in a basement together and you still don’t know my name?”
She straightens, clearly enjoying this far too much. There’s a glint in her eyes, mischievous and alive, like she’s reclaiming a small victory from all the fear and silence of the past month. “You were right about the A part though. It’s Anya.” She grins. “Pretty rad, right?”
You nod slowly, unsure what kind of response she’s looking for. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Rad.” The word feels small, inadequate, but it’s all you can manage.
Your gaze drifts between Anya and Ettore before you finally let out a tired sigh, rubbing a hand down your face. The exhaustion hits all at once, heavy and unavoidable. Every nerve, every muscle, every thought seems to collapse simultaneously.
“You two have fun,” you say, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to bed. We’ll figure out the rest of this shit tomorrow.”
Ettore seems to understand immediately. He smiles warmly and gives you a small wave.
(“Goodnight, Mikhail! Thank you for sharing your name with us. I hope you can finally get some good rest now that everything is over.”)
Anya snickers, tossing her hair over her shoulder with mock seriousness. “Yeah. Night, Mikhail. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
You nod in response and gently close the door behind you as you make your way down the hall to your bedroom. The soft click of the latch echoes slightly in the empty hallway, a quiet punctuation on a day full of noise, chaos, and tiny revelations.
You collapse onto the bed face-first, exhaustion radiating through your body like heat off asphalt. Your limbs feel impossibly heavy, your brain a jumble of thoughts and sounds you can’t quiet. The room smells faintly of dust and the faint lingering remnants of everyone else’s presence. It is oddly comforting, in a strange way.
Was this really a good idea?
Letting these people stay. Letting them learn your name. Letting them exist in your space, in your life. Your mind flickers briefly to all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways the fragile little balance you’ve carved out could crumble. But then you hear the faint, rhythmic breathing of the house settling around you, and for a moment, it feels safe.
What’s the worst that could happen? you think vaguely.
And with that thought, fleeting and imperfect as it is, you drift off to sleep in a room that, for the first time in a long while, isn’t overbearingly hot.