Matvei (Mafia)

Matvei dropped the burlap sack onto the rough floorboards with a grunt, the weight settling with a muted thud in the dim, cramped space of his cabin. He knew what was inside the bag—how could he not? The whole trek back, the damn thing squirmed and shifted, forcing him to clamp down with fingers like iron. Every twist and jolt only served to tighten his grip on their soft thighs, irritating him further. It was easier when the cargo wasn't alive, he thought bitterly, giving the bag a final shove toward the center of the room.

Outside, snow fell steadily in thick curtains, muffling the sounds of the darkening forest. Dusk was settling, casting a quiet, bluish gloom over the cabin's interior, the kind that seeped into a person’s bones if they let it. The walls, rough logs barely chinked with clay, didn’t do much to keep out the cold, and the only light came from the faint crackle of a half-lit fire in the corner.

Why in hell did they give me this job? Matvei scowled, tugging at the frayed drawstrings of the bag. They could have warned him about this special package—a living, breathing one. The burlap slipped down, revealing the dirt-streaked face of a person, sprawled awkwardly across the worn wooden planks, looking every bit as miserable as he felt. His cold eyes swept over them slowly, scanning each detail with a detachment that bordered on icy disdain.

"херня," he muttered under his breath, the curse slipping out like a habit, rough and bitter. This was not what he’d signed up for. With a slow, frustrated exhale, he turned his back, tugging off his thick fur hat and tossing it onto the table, letting his disheveled white hair fall free, the ends damp and plastered against his forehead. Even now, as he tossed aside his outer layers, he kept his face hidden behind a dark cloth wrapped over his mouth and nose, old habits from years in the field.

He stomped over to the fire, kneeling to stir the coals, the dull orange glow flaring up in response. At least he could make the place bearable. He wanted warmth, maybe a moment’s peace, but that was unlikely with his “cargo” sprawled out on his floor like dead weight.

"This is nonsense," he muttered to himself, rubbing a hand over his face before pulling off his gloves, the heat from the fire making his fingers prickle with warmth. I’m a smuggler, not a damn babysitter. This job didn’t need compassion or curiosity—it needed an iron stomach, a blind eye, and a steady hand. Still, as much as he told himself to leave the bag alone, the curiosity itched at him, sour and persistent. He leaned back, glancing over his shoulder.

“Are you awake?” he called, his voice gruff and strained from hours of silence, each word thick with his accent. He didn’t care for an answer, not really. The less they spoke, the better, but something told him tonight wasn’t about to go that smoothly.Matvei dropped the burlap sack onto the rough floorboards with a grunt, the weight settling with a muted thud in the dim, cramped space of his cabin. He knew what was inside the bag—how could he not? The whole trek back, the damn thing squirmed and shifted, forcing him to clamp down with fingers like iron. Every twist and jolt only served to tighten his grip on their soft thighs, irritating him further. It was easier when the cargo wasn't alive, he thought bitterly, giving the bag a final shove toward the center of the room.

Outside, snow fell steadily in thick curtains, muffling the sounds of the darkening forest. Dusk was settling, casting a quiet, bluish gloom over the cabin's interior, the kind that seeped into a person’s bones if they let it. The walls, rough logs barely chinked with clay, didn’t do much to keep out the cold, and the only light came from the faint crackle of a half-lit fire in the corner.

Why in hell did they give me this job? Matvei scowled, tugging at the frayed drawstrings of the bag. They could have warned him about this special package—a living, breathing one. The burlap slipped down, revealing the dirt-streaked face of a person, sprawled awkwardly across the worn wooden planks, looking every bit as miserable as he felt. His cold eyes swept over them slowly, scanning each detail with a detachment that bordered on icy disdain.

"херня," he muttered under his breath, the curse slipping out like a habit, rough and bitter. This was not what he’d signed up for. With a slow, frustrated exhale, he turned his back, tugging off his thick fur hat and tossing it onto the table, letting his disheveled white hair fall free, the ends damp and plastered against his forehead. Even now, as he tossed aside his outer layers, he kept his face hidden behind a dark cloth wrapped over his mouth and nose, old habits from years in the field.

He stomped over to the fire, kneeling to stir the coals, the dull orange glow flaring up in response. At least he could make the place bearable. He wanted warmth, maybe a moment’s peace, but that was unlikely with his “cargo” sprawled out on his floor like dead weight.

"This is nonsense," he muttered to himself, rubbing a hand over his face before pulling off his gloves, the heat from the fire making his fingers prickle with warmth. I’m a smuggler, not a damn babysitter. This job didn’t need compassion or curiosity—it needed an iron stomach, a blind eye, and a steady hand. Still, as much as he told himself to leave the bag alone, the curiosity itched at him, sour and persistent. He leaned back, glancing over his shoulder.

“Are you awake?” he called, his voice gruff and strained from hours of silence, each word thick with his accent. He didn’t care for an answer, not really. The less they spoke, the better, but something told him tonight wasn’t about to go that smoothly.