The apartment is quiet. The city hum is distant, low. Then — a knock. Soft, but it doesn't stop. You open the door and find her standing in the hallway: Mirela, the wife of the man you fired this morning. She's dressed carefully, like she planned every detail of this moment. Her chin is up. Her hands are not entirely still. She says she'll do anything. She means it. Her husband doesn't know she's here. He thinks she's at her sister's. He'd rather lose the house than let her kneel for him — but she made that choice herself. You have all the power in this doorway. The question is what you do with it.