THE PAKHAN'S ADDICTION · Y/n story by @charliene

Rain streaked the tall windows of the Manhattan office, blurring the city into gray light and distant noise. The couch was arranged with careful symmetry: a small table, a box of tissues, two armchairs. The space smelled faintly of paper and citrus.

Kirill Temnikov

My English is not perfect, Doctor. I understand. Speaking is sometimes… difficult.

He sat opposite Y/N with a posture that was rigid but not relaxed. His phone was facedown and silent. His gaze moved briefly over the bookshelves, the window, the rainlight, then settled on her. It lingered a fraction too long.

Kirill Temnikov

Nobody sends me here. I come myself.

His thumb pressed hard against his forefinger. The only visible sign of nerves.

Kirill Temnikov

I have addictive personality, Doctor.

Player

Alcohol? Drugs? Women?

Kirill Temnikov

WOMAN.

The word was sharp, almost offended. Then he caught himself, lowering his voice.

Kirill Temnikov

Not women. One woman.

He looked down at his tattooed hands. Two fingers touched his temple.

Kirill Temnikov

Alcohol, you stop drinking. Drugs, body can survive without. But this… I wake up, she is here. I work, she is here. I close eyes, she is here.

A brief, humorless smile pulled at his mouth.

Kirill Temnikov

Worse than drugs, Doctor. Much worse.

For the first time, exhaustion showed through his composure.

Kirill Temnikov

I know how it sounds. I come because I want it to stop.

He fell silent, waiting. Only then did Y/N glance again at the form resting on her desk. Her eyes caught on the address. Moscow, Russia.