The first thing Yelena heard was glass.
Not the soft kind that shattered in movies, dramatic and clean. This was the ugly kind. The kind that sounded like a life being torn apart in real time.
Something crashed downstairs, followed by a loud, furious bang, like someone had thrown a table against a wall.
Yelena bolted upright in bed, her heart already sprinting ahead of her brain.
Her room was cold. The air carried that early morning stillness, the kind that made every sound feel louder, sharper, closer.
She blinked, squinting at the clock on the wall.
5:57 AM.
Of course.
She didn't even need to guess what it was. In this house, there were only two kinds of mornings.
The quiet ones, where everyone pretended Yelena didn't exist.
And the loud ones, where Scarlet reminded the world she did.
Yelena exhaled slowly and dragged her fingers through her hair, trying to fight off the fog of sleep. Scarlet had a talent. A terrifying, supernatural talent.
She could wake up and decide violence was a hobby.
She was her uncle's daughter, his golden child, his "little princess." That meant the rules of the house bent around her moods like melted plastic. If Scarlet wanted to scream, she screamed. If she wanted to break things, she broke them. If she wanted to blame someone…
Yelena's gaze drifted to the mirror near her closet.
The faint bruise on her arm from two nights ago still hadn't faded.
She didn't need to go downstairs to know what was happening.
Not this time.
Not again.
She lay back down, pulling the blanket over her shoulder like it could block sound and bad luck. If she stayed quiet, if she stayed invisible, Scarlet might not remember she existed.
That was the safest strategy Yelena had ever learned.
But before her head even touched the pillow, someone slammed their fist against her door.
Not a knock.
A warning.
"Yelena!" a woman's voice hissed. "Young lady, wake up!"
Yelena froze.
Her breath caught.
That wasn't Scarlet.
That wasn't Yelena's aunt either.
It was Penelope.
And Penelope didn't sound angry.
She sounded… scared.
Yelena threw the blanket off and hurried to the door, swinging it open.
Penelope stood there in her nightgown, hair half-tied, eyes wide like she'd seen something she wasn't supposed to see.
Her hands were shaking.
"Penelope?" Yelena's voice came out hoarse. "What's going on?"
Penelope grabbed her wrist immediately.
"No questions," she whispered, tugging her forward. "You need to come down. Now."
Yelena's stomach dropped.
Her body resisted at first, instinct screaming at her to stay upstairs, stay safe, stay away from whatever chaos waited below.
But Penelope's grip was tight, urgent.
And the noise downstairs had gotten worse.
There was shouting now.
Not Scarlet's high-pitched tantrum screams.
These voices were deeper. Rougher.
Men.
Yelena felt a strange chill crawl down her spine as Penelope dragged her toward the staircase.
They hurried down the steps, and with every one they descended, the sounds became clearer.
Wood cracking.
Metal striking glass.
A dull thud, like a heavy object being kicked across the floor.
Yelena's heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat.
"Penelope…" she whispered. "What is it?"
Penelope didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The moment they reached the bottom of the staircase, Yelena saw everything.
And her blood turned cold.
There were men in the living room.
Not guests.
Not repairmen.
Not neighbors.
These men moved like they owned the air itself.
Six of them, maybe seven. Thick jackets, heavy boots. Some had shaved heads, others had messy hair. All of them had the same expression.
The expression of people who didn't fear consequences.
One man swung a hammer into the glass cabinet near the wall. The cabinet exploded into glittering shards. Another kicked over a decorative vase, sending water and flowers spilling across the marble floor.
A third man was casually ripping framed family photos off the wall and tossing them like trash.
Yelena stood frozen at the foot of the stairs.
Her brain refused to process what she was seeing.
This wasn't Scarlet.
This wasn't some spoiled brat episode.
This was an invasion.
Across the room, Yelena's aunt sat huddled on the couch with Scarlet, both of them pressed into the corner like frightened animals. Yelena's aunt's arms were wrapped around her daughter, but her face was pale, her lips trembling.
Scarlet's eyes were wide, and mascara smeared down her cheeks.
For the first time in Yelena's life…
Scarlet looked small.
One of the men slammed a chair into the wall on purpose, making Scarlet scream.
He laughed.
Yelena felt a strange sensation spread through her chest.
Fear.
Yes.
But something else too.
A slow, bitter heat.
Because of course.
Of course, this was happening in her life.
Her uncle was nowhere to be seen.
Coward.
Penelope stepped forward, her voice shaking. "Please… please stop! This is a private residence!"
The men didn't even glance at her.
They moved like wolves in a henhouse, tearing apart everything expensive and fragile.
The television.
The marble coffee table.
The crystal chandelier.
Each smash was deliberate.
A message.
Yelena swallowed hard and forced herself to take a step forward.
Her legs felt heavy, like she was walking through water. "What are you doing?" she demanded, voice louder than she expected. "Stop!"
No one answered.
Not even a glance.
It was like she hadn't spoken at all.
That dismissal snapped something in her.
Yelena had been ignored her whole life. Treated like furniture. Treated like an inconvenience. Treated like a shadow.
But this?
This wasn't just ignoring her.
This was erasing her.
She stepped forward again, her hands clenched into fists. "I said stop!" she shouted.
That finally did it.
One by one, the men turned.
Their eyes landed on her like heat.
The room went quiet, not because they stopped moving, but because the destruction slowed, as if they were suddenly amused by a new toy walking into their field of vision.
Yelena's throat tightened. She felt Penelope tug her sleeve, silently begging her to retreat.
But Yelena didn't.
She lifted her chin, forcing her fear down like poison. Her uncle's wife stared at her, eyes wide with panic, as if Yelena were insane for speaking.
Scarlet looked at her too, but there was no sympathy in her gaze.
Only blame.
Like always.
Yelena took a breath. Her mind raced wildly, searching for something, anything, that could help.
And then, oddly enough, the words came to her.
Words she'd memorized late at night, while studying in secret. Words she clung to because they were the only armor she had in this house.
She spoke quickly, her voice sharp. "Entering a dwelling with the intent to destroy property is a crime. Destruction of private property is a criminal offense. If you don't leave immediately, I will call the police, and you will be charged."
The room fell still.
Not silent.
Still.
As if the air itself paused to listen.
Then a man stepped forward.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar running down his jaw like a crooked signature. He moved slowly, clapping his hands as if Yelena had just finished a performance.
"Wow," he said, voice thick with mockery. "Look at that."
He stopped a few feet from her, eyes scanning her from head to toe. "A little law student."
Yelena's fingers trembled, but she didn't back away. "I'm not a law student," she said. "I'm just not stupid."
The man's grin widened.
His teeth were too white.
Too calm.
Too confident.
He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying her.
Then he spoke, casually, like he was discussing the weather. "You're right," he said. "We can't just come into someone's home and do this."
Yelena's heart thudded.
For a second, she thought maybe…
Maybe this could end.
But then his eyes sharpened.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "your family seems to have forgotten something even more important than the law."
He took another step forward.
And his voice dropped into something colder. "They forgot that money has rules too."
Yelena blinked.
"What…?"
The man's grin vanished. What replaced it was worse.
A flat expression.
A dead one.
"Your uncle borrowed money," he said. "A lot of it."
Yelena felt her stomach twist.
"No," she whispered. "That's not—"
"He borrowed," the man repeated, raising his voice slightly, "and he hasn't paid back a single dollar."
Yelena's aunt let out a choked sound from the couch, like she'd been stabbed.
Scarlet began to cry harder.
Yelena turned toward them instinctively, but Yelena's aunt refused to meet her eyes.
That alone told Yelena everything.
Her throat went dry. "A loan…?" Yelena whispered.
The man's smile returned, but it wasn't amused anymore.
It was hungry.
"Yes," he said softly.
He leaned closer, his breath smelling faintly of tobacco. "A loan."
Yelena's mind raced.
Loan.
Debt.
That explained the men. The weapons. The destruction. The deliberate terror.
These weren't burglars.
They weren't gangsters breaking in for fun.
They were something worse.
Something legal enough to survive.
Something vicious enough to thrive.
The man straightened and glanced around the wrecked living room like he was inspecting his work.
Then he looked back at Yelena. "And sweetheart," he said, voice smooth as oil, "we're not here to steal."
He gestured to the mess.
"We're here to collect."
Yelena's skin went ice cold.
Because she suddenly understood the real problem.
Her uncle wasn't home.
And the people who owed money were always the first to disappear.
Which meant…
The ones left behind would be the ones paying.
The man's gaze locked onto hers.
His smile sharpened. "And since your uncle is missing," he said, "we'll take what we can from whoever's left."
Yelena didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Her legs felt like they had forgotten how to function.
Penelope's hand tightened around her arm.
Scarlet sobbed into her mother's shoulder.
And Yelena, standing in the center of the broken living room, realized something terrifying.
This wasn't Scarlet's house anymore.
This wasn't her uncle's house anymore.
This wasn't even a home.
It was a battlefield.
And she had just walked into it unarmed.
The man took one final step forward.
Then, in a voice too calm for the violence around him, he said: "Now… let's talk about how your family plans to repay us."