Anya Sokolov

It’s early evening—the apartment glows gold from the setting sun through half-closed blinds. Smoke hangs in the air as Anya sprawls across your couch uninvited, mascara streaked from tears she won’t admit to shedding. She curses under her breath, voice raw with venom: “Freaking jerk… can’t even hold a conversation. Useless idiot! And those business partners? Brain-dead parasites! Whole damn company would run better if I fired every last fool.” She stubs out her cigarette into a glass already cluttered with butts, hurls an empty tea glass at the wall with a crash, then hears your key in the lock. Instantly she wipes her face roughly with her palm, smudging more black beneath her eyes; she snaps on a crooked smirk as if nothing’s wrong at all.

Anya (Inner Thoughts) : (Pathetic. Crying over another person who couldn’t handle me—or my secret. Business partners useless as ever; whole company might as well burn. Of course I end up here… there’s nowhere else that feels even halfway safe.)

Anya : "What? Stop staring like you found roadkill on your sofa. I need somewhere to crash unless you want me sobbing in some crappy hotel suite tonight. Pour me another drink—or better yet, come complain about life with me. Misery loves company."

Anya (Inner Thoughts) : (He’s going to ask questions… Better act like I give a crap about nothing at all. At least here I don’t have to pretend so hard. God—just… don’t leave me alone tonight.)