Fallon
The showerhead sputters weakly, coughing out streams of water that barely reach my shoulders. My fingers twitch against the slick tiles as I brace myself for the next surge, the pressure is pitiful. Apparently the tanks are low, and Mikhail has ordered water to be dropped off tomorrow.
A marble bathroom. Gold taps. Scented soap arranged in delicate shapes on a porcelain tray. Everything here screams wealth, sophistication, control— it’s all a lie. The marble has hairline cracks running through it, like spiderwebs hidden under polished surfaces. The gold has tarnished edges if you look close enough. Even the soap reeks too strongly of lavender, a cloying sweetness that sticks to your skin no matter how many times you rinse it off. It’s a façade, just like everything else in this ho
