Igor jerked as if from a blow, but not physical.

The words hung in the air like drops hesitant to fall. Vera suddenly felt that time in the hallway had lost its usual linearity—it had become viscous, like cooling wax, and every sound, every breath echoed heavily within it.

Igor flinched, as if struck, not physically, but by an internal, invisible jolt. His gaze darted to Vera, and in that gaze, beyond fear and anger, something elusive flickered, like the reflection of a distant fire in dark water. He seemed about to say something, but the words stuck in his throat, caught in his pride like torn fabric caught in a nail.

“I…” he began, and then stopped short.

The man at the door slightly loosened his grip on Vera’s elbow. He didn’t let go—he simply gave her the illusion of freedom, like someone giving her air before diving. She stepped forward, slowly, as if afraid to frighten the fragile something that had suddenly appeared between her and her stepson.

“Igor,” she said quietly, and now her voice did not tremble. “Tell me. Now.”

He laughed—shortly, dryly, almost soundlessly. It wasn’t a youthful, brazen laugh—it was old, like fatigue, and alien to his sixteen years.

“It’s too late,” he exhaled. “You still won’t understand.”

Vera took another step. The smell of dampness, wet leather, and something metallic—as if iron had been held in her palms for a long time—filled her breath. She suddenly saw clearly: not the room, not these men, but Igor himself—not as he had been for the last two years, but the boy who once stood on the threshold, his eyes wary and his fists clenched, as if preparing for defense.

“You try it,” she said almost in a whisper.

The man in the cloak shrugged his shoulders in displeasure.

— Enough of the show. Time’s up.