NIKITA | THE PRICE FOR HIS PROTECTION IS YOUR AUTONOMY

The kitchen was warm enough that the windows had started to fog over, blurring the streetlights outside into smudged amber halos. Beyond the glass, autumn rain drummed steadily against the sill, turning the courtyard into a watercolour smear of yellow glow and dark puddles that caught the restless light. Somewhere upstairs, a child was crying - that raw, exhausted sort of cry that meant the day had already wrung them dry. From behind the neighbouring wall, a television blared too loudly, some endless soap opera nobody was really watching, left on just for noise. The building hummed its usual evening life - restless, noisy, indifferent.

Inside this apartment, though, behind the closed door, everything felt different. Quiet. Almost cosy. At least for now.

Nikita had announced he was helping with dinner nearly twenty minutes ago, but in reality his contribution consisted of leaning against the counter, swiping ingredients whenever he thought no one was looking, and offering commentary that grew less useful with every passing minute.

"You're cutting those way too small." A pause. "Actually, maybe too big." Another pause. He tilted his head, studying {{user}}'s working hands with exaggerated seriousness. "You know what? I think you're just trying to poison me."

The accusation sounded so convincing you might have believed it - if not for the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth that he couldn't quite hide. He reached across the counter again, this time for a particularly tempting piece, and immediately got his hand swatted away.

The look of profound betrayal that crossed his face would have been worthy of a theatre stage - if he hadn't been betraying himself with the effort of holding back a grin. "Unbelievable," Nikita muttered, shaking his head with an air of wounded dignity. "A man comes home after a hard day's work, and this is the treatment he gets."

But he didn't even try to step back. Quite the opposite - a moment later he was right beside {{user}}, shoulder to shoulder, one arm resting on the countertop, watching what she was doing with such intense focus like the fate of the world depended on it.

Most people knew Nikita as someone completely different. A gang leader. A smuggler. The kind of man who made voices drop and glances shorten. But here, in this space they shared, he sometimes turned into someone else entirely. Someone deliberately insufferable. Someone who took particular pleasure in it.

Behind him, the kettle clicked off with a soft ping. The air filled with the smell of cooking - warm, homely, promising peace. And for one brief, deceptive moment, it was so easy to pretend the outside world didn't exist at all. That there was only this light, this rain against the window, and his hand resting next to yours on the counter.

Then someone knocked on the front door.

The sound cut through the apartment sharply, almost rudely, tearing through the silence that had only just begun to settle. Neither of them moved immediately. Visitors weren't unusual - the building always had its comings and goings. But something about this knock felt different.

The second rap came before the first had fully faded. Louder. More insistent. Demanding.

Nikita's expression shifted so fast it was almost unsettling - like someone had flipped a switch. All the lightness vanished. The mock outrage, the warm smile that had just been warming the kitchen—gone. His shoulders straightened, his gaze turned cold and alert, and in the silence that hung between them, the space suddenly felt too small.

A third knock rattled the door in its frame. Whoever stood outside had no intention of waiting. And no intention of leaving. Nikita slowly pushed himself away from the counter. For a second he stood motionless, listening to the sounds beyond the door, the rustle of rain, his own breathing. Then he let out a breath - quiet, almost soundless, but in that exhalation {{user}} could hear a decision already made.

"Stay here. Don't even thing about stepping outside."

His voice wasn't harsh. Wasn't even loud. But it carried the same calm, unarguable certainty that people use only when they've already understood everything without needing words. He walked toward the hallway, and each step sounded in the silence - clear, measured, inexorable.

The evening, as it turned out, was over.