Part 1. The Crystal Mycelium
The laboratory smelled of damp earth, ozone, and the faint, luxurious trace of truffle. To me, a mycologist with ten years of experience, it was a fragrance far more intoxicating than any French perfume. This was my world—sterile chambers, Petri dishes, and rare fungal cultures destined for pharmaceutical labs and gourmet kitchens. Quiet. Ordered. Precise. A place where every spore and every thread of mycelium belonged exactly where it was meant to be.
“Larisa, we need to talk. Seriously.”
My husband’s voice cut through the holy silence of the clean zone.
Igor stood in the doorway, hesitating as though the threshold itself might reject him. He was still wearing his work coveralls from the agro-drone company, smeared with green stains from crushed grass and plant sap. He looked worn and nervous, his eyes darting anywhere but toward me. I carefully sealed the container holding a Cordyceps militaris sample.
“Go ahead,” I said, removing my protective goggles. “And don’t tell me you managed to crash another drone into the only birch tree in the field.”
“Worse,” Igor muttered. “I decided to end things with Elvira.”
I went still.
Elvira—his “secret” affair, the one I had known about for the last six months. I had known and said nothing, watching him scurry back and forth like a rat trapped in a maze. Hesitation had always been his defining trait.
“That’s admirable,” I said coldly. “What does that have to do with interrupting my work?”
Ignoring every sterilization rule, Igor stepped inside. His face twisted into a performance of misery he clearly thought would stir my sympathy.
“I’m leaving her for us. For our family. But, Lara… Veronika found out. My sister knew about Elvira before you did. And now she’s blackmailing me. She says she’ll tell you everything in vivid detail if I don’t help her with housing.”
I laughed. The sound was dry and brittle, like a leaf breaking underfoot in late autumn.
“Igor, are you stupid? You’ve just told me everything yourself. That makes the blackmail pointless.”
“You don’t get it.” He grabbed at his hair. “She won’t just tell you. She promised to make my life hell. She’s in real trouble, Lara. Massive debts. Her cheap little clothing shop failed. Grandma Nura hounds her day and night in their one-room apartment. She needs space.”
“And?” I already knew where this was going.
“You have two apartments in the city center. Empty ones. The ones your professor grandfather left you. Transfer one to Veronika. Just for now. Or give it to her outright. It’ll save me from humiliation and save her from drowning in debt. We’re family.”
Something heavy and sticky rose in my chest. It wasn’t pain. It was rage.
“My apartments are none of your concern,” I said, looking directly between his eyes. “And they are certainly none of concern to your greedy sister. Are you seriously suggesting that I should pay off your sister’s blackmail with my own property?”
“She’s not greedy, she’s miserable!” Igor shrieked. “You’re heartless! You’ve got your science, your mushrooms, your money, while real people are piled on top of each other trying to survive! Veronika always said you were wrong for me, and I defended you!”
“Defended me?” I took a step toward him, and he instinctively backed away. “You cheated on me, and now you want me to fund your absolution with my real estate? Get out. Go back to your drones, your sister, or straight to hell.”
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed, and for the first time his voice sounded just like hers. “Veronika isn’t going to let this go. She already thinks that apartment belongs to her.”
Part 2. The Skeleton in the Wind
Wind moved through the exposed frame of the unfinished veranda. My country house—my own private project—had been meant as a refuge. The complicated geometry of the roof, the sweeping glass openings, every line of it had cost me sleepless nights and impossible effort. I had come here hoping to breathe after my talk with Igor.
Instead, what I found made my blood boil.
A little delegation was pacing around the site near the stacks of laminated timber. Veronika, dressed in a leopard-print puffer coat that looked about as appropriate there as a ballerina in a slaughterhouse, was pointing at my windows. Beside her shuffled Grandma Nura—bent with age but fast as a sparrow—and a short distance away stood Sveta, Veronika’s best friend, smoking with the air of an architect. Bleached hair, sour face, permanent contempt.
“Here, Grandma, we’ll put your sofa,” Veronika was announcing loudly, not yet noticing me. “And we’ll brick up this opening. What on earth do you need that much light for? It’ll be freezing.”
“Exactly, Verочка,” the old woman croaked. “And the fence needs to be higher too. Too many people wandering around.”
I walked right up to them. The anger inside me thickened, settling like a stone beneath my ribs.
“The tour is over,” I said sharply.
Veronika turned. There was not a trace of shame on her face—only that insolent smirk.
“Oh, look who’s here. The queen of the mountain,” she sneered. “We were just admiring how you spend Igor’s money. The place is huge, and you don’t even have children. Why does one woman need all this?”
“This is my money, Veronika. And this is my house. Get off my property.”
“Your property?” Sveta interrupted, blowing cigarette smoke into my face. “Everything in a marriage is shared, sweetheart. Igor said this house is basically his achievement. He ‘inspired’ you.”
Grandma Nura came closer and jabbed me in the side with her knotted walking stick.
“Don’t get smart, girl. Verочка has suffered enough. She has nowhere to live, and you’re building yourself a palace. Aren’t you afraid of God? Hand over the city apartment nicely, and we’ll let you keep this shed. Out of kindness.”
“Out of kindness?” The corner of my mouth twitched. Not from fear—from the effort it took not to grab that stick and snap it over my knee. “You vultures are dividing up the spoils before there’s even a body.”
“Igor promised!” Veronika screeched. “He said you agreed! He said you felt guilty for being a bad wife and wanted to make amends! We already found a realtor to handle the paperwork. Tomorrow we’re coming to you with documents.”
“Try coming anywhere near me,” I said, low and clear.
“Ooh, terrifying,” Veronika mocked, shivering theatrically before laughing. “What are you going to do? Poison us with your mushrooms? You’re soft, Larisa. Weak. One of those useless intellectuals. Igor is with us now. He’ll sign whatever I tell him to. He loves his mother and sister, not some frozen little iceberg like you.”
They drove off in their battered crossover, slamming the doors like actors ending a scene. I stood there watching them leave, my hands trembling. They had mistaken restraint for weakness.
That would prove to be their biggest mistake.
Part 3. A Terrarium with Appetizers
The café was fashionable in the most irritating way—dim lights, beautiful décor, and chairs designed to make you uncomfortable. I was sitting in a corner booth with Vadim, my ex-boyfriend, now a talented lawyer specializing in intellectual property. We rarely saw each other, but that day I needed not legal advice so much as a sane human opinion.
“This is ugly, Lara,” Vadim said, slowly rotating a glass of water in his hands. “The law is on your side. Inherited property and assets acquired before marriage belong to you. But what they’re doing is psychological pressure. This is family terrorism.”
At that very moment, the café door flew open and a noisy group swept inside.
Igor, pale and sweating, was dragging along a crying brunette—the same Elvira. Right behind them came Veronika and her ex-husband Tolya, a thick-necked brute with the dead eyes of a man who only understood force.
“There she is!” Veronika yelled, pointing straight at me. The entire café seemed to freeze. “Sitting here with her lover while her husband suffers!”
The moment Igor saw me, he went even paler. He tried to say something to his sister, but Tolya shoved him hard between the shoulder blades.
“Go on. Deal with it. Be a man.”
Under that shove, Igor stumbled toward our table. Elvira trailed behind, sobbing and smearing mascara down her cheeks.
“Larisa… I didn’t know you’d be here…” he mumbled.
“Oh, but I did!” Veronika swooped in, planting both hands on the table. “That’s it, the performance is over. You”—she pointed at Elvira—“get lost, you tramp. Igor is dumping you. And you”—she turned to me—“do you see what sacrifices my brother is making for his family? He’s throwing out his mistress. Now it’s your turn. Put the apartment on the table.”
Vadim started to stand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I would ask—”
“Shut up, four-eyes,” Tolya growled, towering over him. “This is a family matter.”
I rose slowly from my chair. By then the anger inside me had become something dense and scorching. I looked at Elvira.
“Did you know he was married?” I asked.
“I-I did,” she stammered through tears. “But he told me you were a monster…”
“He lied,” I said calmly. “The monster here is not me. Not yet.”
Then I turned to Veronika. She was practically glowing with triumph, convinced that public humiliation would corner me into surrender.
“You think I’m embarrassed?” I asked, stepping closer to her. “You think I care what a room full of people eating salad thinks of me?”
“You’re going to share, Larisa,” she hissed. “We have leverage. Igor, tell her.”
Shaking, Igor forced the words out:
“Lara, let’s not make a scene. Just sign over the studio apartment and we’ll go. Veronika really needs it.”
“Greed is not need, Igor. It’s a disease,” I said. “You’re not getting a single meter from me. Ever.”
“Then we’ll take it ourselves,” Tolya said with a nasty grin. “We’ve got keys. Igor had copies made. While you’ve been sitting here talking, maybe Grandma is already packing your things.”
The words hit like a live wire.
Keys.
My home. My safe place. Contaminated by their hands.
“If any of you touch even one of my things,” I said, my voice trembling with the force of it, “I will destroy you.”
“Oh, scary,” Veronika laughed. Then she snatched Vadim’s glass and threw the water in my face. “Cool down, psycho. We’ll be waiting at your place. Housewarming party.”
They left cackling. Igor shuffled after them, too cowardly to look at me. Vadim handed me a napkin.
“Lara, let’s call the police—”
“No.” I clenched the soaked cloth so tightly that water ran through my fingers. “They won’t understand words or laws. They only understand force.”
Part 4. The Concrete Well
The taxi stopped outside my building just as dusk was settling in. Leaning against the rail near the entrance was Pashka, the teenage boy from next door—always gloomy, always harmless, always wearing oversized headphones. When he spotted me, he pulled one earpiece away.
“Aunt Larisa, some people were trying to get to you. I didn’t let them into the building, but that big guy yanked the door so hard he broke the magnetic lock.”
“Thanks, Pash,” I said, feeling adrenaline flood my body.
I went inside.
The elevator wasn’t working. Of course it wasn’t.
As I climbed toward the third floor, I could already hear voices. They were there. On my landing.
Veronika. Tolya. Sveta. Igor.
They stood outside my apartment door while Tolya fumbled with a key that clearly didn’t fit well—one of Igor’s crude copies, no doubt.
“What’s taking you so long, idiot?” Veronika snapped.
“Doesn’t fit, damn it… Oh look, here comes our princess.”
They all turned.
In the dim stairwell light, their faces looked warped, ugly, almost mask-like.
“Give us the keys,” Tolya said, holding out his hand. “Otherwise we’ll take the door off. That’ll cost you more.”
“You are not getting in,” I said. My handbag dropped to the floor with a dull thud. I was ready. My anger had cooled into something harder—pure resolve.
“Listen to me,” Veronika said, stepping forward until she was practically standing on my toes. “Who do you think you are to make demands? You’re nobody. Just a hanger-on attached to my brother. You’re going to open this door, let us in, sign the papers, and then you can crawl off to your boyfriend.”
“Igor,” I said, looking at my husband, who was lingering near the trash chute like a frightened child. “This is your last chance. Stop them.”
Igor looked away.
“Lara, just give them the apartment. They won’t leave you alone otherwise. I can’t go against them. They’re my family.”
“Family…” I repeated.
At that exact moment Tolya stepped closer and grabbed my shoulder hard.
“Don’t be stupid. Keys. Now.”
His fingers dug painfully into me.
That touch was the trigger.
“Take. Your hands. Off me.”
“Or what?” he bared his teeth.
I didn’t answer.
Years of handling heavy field equipment had taught me more than patience. With one sharp, practiced movement, I twisted free and slammed both hands into his chest. He hadn’t expected resistance from the “quiet intellectual.” He staggered backward and crashed into the railing.
“You bitch!” Veronika shrieked and lunged at me, claws out.
Part 5. The Apartment of Reckoning
The door flew open under the force of my body—Tolya had managed to turn the lock, but not fast enough to get inside first. We all tumbled into the entryway together: me, Veronika, and Sveta, who had rushed in to help her friend.
“Hold her!” Veronika screamed. “Tolya, grab her!”
They thought I would cry. They thought I would retreat into a corner.
They forgot one simple thing: a cornered animal is the most dangerous kind.
I seized Veronika by the collar of her leopard-print coat and yanked her forward with a force that even surprised me. The fabric tore. Using her own momentum, I flung her toward the coat rack. Coats and jackets came crashing down over her, burying her beneath a heap of outerwear.
“What the hell are you doing, you lunatic?” Tolya roared, storming into the apartment. He raised his arm to strike, but I didn’t back away.
I screamed.
Not from fear. From fury. A raw, animal sound, guttural and violent, filled with every ounce of rage and hatred they had dragged out of me.
My hand found the heavy metal shoehorn by the wall—long, forged, expensive. I swung it with all my strength and smashed it against Tolya’s arm.
Whether it cracked something or just landed hard, I didn’t know. But he howled and grabbed his forearm.
“Get out!” I shouted, advancing on them.
From behind, Sveta made a grab for my hair. I spun and slapped her across the face with all the force I had. No hesitation. No pity. She staggered backward into the mirror and slid down the wall, smearing lipstick and tears across her face.
“You’re insane!” Veronika shrieked from under the coats.
I lunged toward her, seized a fistful of her hair, and hauled her upright.
“You wanted the apartment?” I hissed in her face. “You wanted to live here?”
I dragged her down the hallway. She fought, clawed, and scratched at my arms, but I didn’t feel any of it. I was pure adrenaline. I hurled her toward the open bathroom door. She hit the tile floor with her hip.
“Then live here!” I screamed. “Live in the toilet!”
Tolya recovered and charged again, his face twisted with rage.
“That’s it. You’re dead.”
I didn’t look for a weapon. I went straight at him.
My anger was so concentrated, so absolute, that it caught him off guard. I grabbed his T-shirt, tore it down the seams, and started hitting him—fists, palms, knees, anything I could use. Chest. Neck. Face. Wherever I could land a blow. I had become a fury in human form.
He was physically stronger than me, yes. But emotionally he was a coward. He had never imagined the “victim” would turn predator.
He stumbled backward, tripped on the threshold, and crashed to the floor in the hallway.
“Get out of my home!” My voice cracked into a hoarse roar. “I’ll kill you! I’ll rip you apart with my teeth!”
I must have looked deranged—hair disheveled, eyes blazing, ready to tear them apart with my bare hands. Igor, who had spent the entire time pressed helplessly against the doorway, finally found his voice.
“Lara, calm down…”
I turned my head and looked at him.
That was enough. He fell silent instantly.
“You,” I said, taking a step toward my husband. “You’re next.”
Veronika, whining now, crawled toward the door. Sveta had already bolted into the stairwell, her heels hammering against the concrete steps. Tolya, clutching his bruised arm and staring at me with naked horror, backed away.
“You’re crazy,” he muttered. “Completely insane…”
“Out!” I thundered, lifting my hand again.
They ran.
Like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Shoving each other, stumbling, scrambling over themselves. Veronika lost a shoe but didn’t dare stop for it. Tolya nearly knocked Igor over on his way out.
And then Igor was the only one left.
He stood in the middle of my wrecked entryway, staring at me.
“Lara, they’re gone… let’s talk…”
I walked toward him. The rage in me was still alive, but now it was mixing with something uglier: disgust.
I grabbed the front of his work coveralls, dragged him two meters to the door, and with the full strength of hands trained by years of hard work, I threw him out onto the landing.
“I’ll send your things by courier. To your grandmother’s address.”
Then I slammed the door.
One lock clicked. Then the second.
I looked down at the torn sleeve of my dress and the clump of Sveta’s hair extensions lying on the rug.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
A text from Igor: You’re insane. We’ll sue.
I smiled.
My hands were no longer shaking.
I had defended my home in the oldest, most primitive way possible.
And damn it—it had worked.
The next day Pashka told me, and later mutual acquaintances confirmed it, that Veronika had started telling everyone I was a witch and secretly had a black belt in karate. Tolya never showed his face again—apparently he was too ashamed to admit he’d been beaten by a woman. Their little entourage scattered. And Igor… Igor tried to come back, only to find the locks changed and his precious drones neatly stacked in the trash bins outside Grandma Nura’s building.
My apartments stayed mine.
And now everyone in that family knew one thing for certain:
coming after me would cost them dearly.