The next morning, a sudden bang on the front door jolted me awake. My body leapt from the bed out of sheer habit, only for my vision to darken, my head to spin, and my strength to drain away—leaving me sliding back onto the mattress.
"What a 'good morning,'" I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Heavy footsteps and the clatter of dishes drifted from the kitchen. Kostya must have returned from his night shift, bustling about to make breakfast. Once my heartbeat settled, I dragged myself out of bed and began dressing. My wardrobe offered a spectrum of greens and browns, save for the solitary white shirt and crimson cardigan. After yesterday's misadventures, the usual colors felt dull. A shopping trip might do wonders—after all, I had been given a bank card for a reason.
I pulled the "exceptional cardigan" from its hanger and slipped it over the snow-white shirt, rolling the sleeves to my elbows. A quick glance in the mirror satisfied me. Thinking the outfit needed a little sparkle, I reached for the box of pendants—but in doing so, I nudged the mouse. The laptop sprang to life, displaying the embarrassing trail of yesterday's searches.
Still, mornings found me sharper than nights ever did. Pouting, I sat down and began scouring the web for stores that sold smartphones, also searching for phone company outlets to recover my number. It hadn't occurred to me yesterday, but a new SIM-card wouldn't matter if I wanted to hide the loss from Kostya.
The plan was already failing: every store opened after the first lesson. Glancing at the clock, I felt the familiar thrum of disappointment. Even if some opened early, reaching both before classes began was impossible. My first lesson—a lab—was at risk, as was the last, led by the principal. Seven lessons in total. Everything seemed set against me. I would have to try my luck after school.
Lost in thought, I nearly forgot the jewelry entirely, remembering it only after washing up and heading for breakfast.
"Good morning!" Kostya called from the stove, a towel slung over his shoulder.
My father, in his work uniform, seemed naïvely protected by a small scrap of fabric pinned to his chest. Drops of oil flew from the sizzling pan, some destined, I'd bet, for his blue uniform.
"Good morning," I peeked over his shoulder, curious about breakfast.
Scrambled eggs. Of course.
"Dad, can you hold the door when you come home from night shifts? I got really scared yesterday."
Kostya frowned, the meaning of my words sinking in slowly. After a pause, he whispered, "I'm sorry," his voice tinged with something fragile—sadness, maybe. "I'm used to being alone. I'll try, I promise."
The sudden change in his expression left a lump in my throat. My request had stirred something in him; it wasn't worth burdening him further with news of the phone. Fortunately, he didn't ask.
"By the way, I called you yesterday. Wanted to make sure you got home safely."
"Think, Asya. Think."
"Oh? My phone died at the supermarket. The map drained the battery."
I studied his tired face for a moment. Thankfully, the explanation sounded simple enough, and my voice stayed steady. To steer him away from further questions, I added:
"I even ran into a classmate there—Nikita. Turns out his family owns the supermarket. Too bad I forgot the name, but the facade had a bright red sign. The inside is huge! I didn't expect that in Kserton. By the time I finished shopping, it was dark, and Nik offered me a ride home."
"Nik, as in Nikita?" Kostya furrowed his brow, thinking.
I nodded. Slowly, the tension in his face softened, deep wrinkles easing.
"Oh, you mean the one near the new highway! That belongs to the Karimovs," he said, flipping the eggs and sliding them onto a plate. "Good people."
He said no more, and I carried the breakfast to the table. Kostya grabbed utensils from the drawer and an orange juice carton from the fridge, sitting opposite me as he dug in. I was about to follow when I realized the juice had no glasses. I began rummaging through the cabinets when his phone rang. A couple of rings later, he answered in a tone sharper than usual:
"Yeah?"
I continued hunting for a glass, catching fragments of the conversation:
"How many bodies… Address… Yes… Secure the area… Canine unit… I'll be there soon."
A muffled thud followed. I finally found a glass and turned to see that Kostya had tossed the phone across the table. Without pause, he ate, barely chewing before washing each bite down with orange juice. Then he stood, kissed me on the forehead, and hurried to the hallway, snatching his phone and leather jacket.
"The phone's ringing. Someone from my team will pick you up today," he said, tying his shoes.
"But I have a bike now," I protested. He waved me off.
"How many classes today?"
"Seven."
His brows drew together in concern. He placed his hands on my shoulders, leaning down so our eyes met. His voice softened, full of fatherly care:
"Asya, something bad is happening in the city. I can't tell you everything, but I'll feel better if someone well-prepared accompanies you home tonight. Make your father happy, okay?"
Looking into his eyes, I felt a prickling in my soul—fear, pure and unmistakable.
"Okay," I whispered, unable to imagine the dangers he might face.