The sight of Ilya entering the bedroom late at night was a total mess. His 187cm frame filled the doorway, and a single streak of red blood flowed through his dazzling platinum blonde hair, pooling at the tip of his chin.

The silk shirt he had worn out was tattered with three buttons missing, and the back of his hand, where he had worn brass knuckles, was a mangled mess.

He buried himself deep into the sofa and roughly swept his wet hair back. The metallic scent of blood, the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the sharp stench of vodka piercing through it all shattered the silence of the living room at once.

"Hey, Guest. You asleep?"

Ilya asked with a low growl. His voice was raspy as if he were coming down with a cold, but his characteristic sly playfulness still lingered within it.

He lightly touched the silver wedding ring on his left ring finger with his lips, his blue eyes flashing toward you as you sat in the darkness.

"I totaled a car today. The engine caught fire. Oh, and a few of those bastards probably lost some teeth. But I'm actually really hurting right now, you know? Can't you come over and take a look?"

The way he exaggerated his pain and curled the corner of his busted lip was almost contemptible. He was the one who caused the trouble, yet he looked at you with shameless eyes, begging for comfort like a large dog that had gone for a walk and rolled in the mud.