A sickly light seeped in through the cracks of the blinds, scattering across the desk stacked with dog-eared playing cards and an empty can of shaving cream, the lid tossed aside like the careless end of an argument. Viktor’s razor lay across the can, unused. He looked at it now, frowning.

“You know, Pavel,” Viktor finally said, without turning from the desk, “when you handed me this game, you didn’t tell me it would stink of death.”

Pavel, who had been leaning against the creaky one-shelf bookcase, pushed himself off with a slow shrug. His shadow cut across the room’s gray despondence like a jagged crack. “Death? Or freedom? It depends on what you decide to play for, does it not?”

Viktor turned, his face gaunt, unshaven, yet disturbingly young in the dim haze. He wasn’t sure if Pavel’s theatrics annoyed him or unsettled him. “You sound like a Dostoevsky villain.”

“Villains sometimes make more sense,” Pavel said, picking up the lone chess pawn that had inexplicably found its way into the pile of playing cards. He rolled it in his fingers, the movement ceaseless, hypnotic. “And let’s be honest, Viktor. That suits you better than you’d like to admit.”

“And what would suit you? Hiding behind games? Propping up my suffering for your amusement?” Viktor’s voice had sharpened, a knife cutting through the loaded stillness.

Pavel took his time before replying, studying the blank-faced pawn like it might whisper its secrets to him. Finally, he responded, evenly, “You agreed to play, didn’t you?”

Viktor’s mouth twitched, though he wasn’t sure if it was anger or discomfort that pulled at his features. It was true, of course. He had taken the deck from Pavel’s hands last week, more out of boredom than curiosity. It wasn’t even a proper card game: just a simple setup where he chose a card, answered a riddle on it, and proceeded to the next. Yet the questions—it was the questions that had begun to unravel him.

What lies between your confession and your crime?

That one had kept him up all night. Pavel never explained the rules, said only that “the game teaches you its purpose as you play.” Cryptic. Infuriating. And disturbingly true.

“Is it really about the game anymore?” Yes, Viktor wanted to ask this, to lay blame on Pavel for planting these poisonous seeds, but he wasn’t sure they were Pavel’s seeds, or if he’d borne them in his own soil all along.

“I’ve been thinking,” Pavel broke his silence, leaning over to grab Viktor’s can of shaving cream. He turned it in his hands, noting the weight, or perhaps the lack of it. “Why haven’t you used this?”

“It’s new,” Viktor said. The words rushed out more defensively than he’d meant.

Pavel sniffed the nozzle theatrically. “Smells fresh. Strange, though, to let it sit there unused. Like you’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“Sometimes we all wait,” Pavel replied, his grin slippery. “Aren’t you waiting for the next move, Viktor?”

The way Pavel said his name felt like he was being stitched into a narrative, one he had barely consented to be part of. Viktor turned fully to face him. “What do you want from me?”

Pavel put the shaving cream down deliberately between them, his smile fading. The pawn clattered to the table next to it. “That’s your question, but also your answer. What do you want from yourself?”

The silence between them hardened, Viktor’s fingers twitching at his sides as if ready to strangle the answer out of his own chest. And then he saw it, understood it. The scent—the artificial crispness of the shaving cream.

“I…” His voice faltered, and Pavel stepped back, as though afraid of what might pour out next.

But Viktor didn’t scream. He didn’t shout. He took the can, uncapped it, and applied the shaving cream with care, each stroke deliberate. He looked into the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall, his reflection fragmented and ugly. It would be clean soon. He picked up the razor.

Pavel, for once, said nothing. The pawn gleamed like an accusation in the light, staring at them both. Viktor brought the blade to his face—not to his throat, to his cheek—and began shaving. It was new. It was fresh.

The move had been his to make all along.

And the game?

Pavel exhaled a quiet, almost satisfied laugh. It was over.