Eleanor’s stomach dropped when she saw him toss a dirty duffel bag onto her son’s neatly made bed. Victor handed Alex a few crumpled bills, and Alex slipped them into his pocket without missing a beat—his “fee” for arranging the deal. Once she was alone with the new tenant, Eleanor felt a sticky, all-consuming fear settle over her, tightening her throat until she could barely speak.
The whole feel of the apartment changed overnight. What had once been a modest, peaceful home now smelled of stale smoke and carried the heavy tension of an aggressive stranger. From the first day, Victor began setting his own rules, paying no mind to the tired older woman who actually lived there. He blasted rough music late into the night, ignored Eleanor’s quiet requests for peace, and laughed right in her face.
When she tried to object to his smoking in the kitchen, he shoved past her and told her flatly that he was running things now. Tears sprang to her eyes, but fear kept her quiet. In that moment, she understood she was trapped in her own home, reduced to tiptoeing around a man who had no respect and no limits.
Victor helped himself to her already meager food supply, leaving her hungry on cold, dark evenings lit only by a candle stub. Before long he began bringing questionable people into Michael’s room—men with hard faces and louder voices—and holding drinking sessions well past curfew. On those nights Eleanor locked herself in her tiny bedroom, flinching at every shout and praying for daylight.
She tried filing complaints with the police, but in wartime the few patrols still operating had bigger emergencies to handle than a housing dispute. Life became a daily exercise in caution. One wrong word, one wrong look, and Victor might explode again. Then Eleanor began noticing things disappearing from the apartment—items she had saved over years for Michael’s future.
The silver spoons, her late husband’s old watch, even Michael’s winter field jacket—all gone. One evening, while another air-raid siren wailed outside, Victor stumbled into the kitchen drunk. His eyes had a dangerous shine, and in one hand he held a heavy metal object, tapping it against his palm.
Eleanor pressed herself against the wall, cold sweat running down her back as Victor moved closer. He stopped inches from her face, breathing stale liquor and cigarette smoke. In a low voice, he told her that starting tomorrow, things in the apartment were going to change—and if she made a sound, she’d end up the same way as her “dead son.”
At those words, something inside Eleanor gave way. Victor tossed the object onto the kitchen table, and with a jolt of horror she recognized it: a real military grenade. Smirking, he told her it was insurance in case she got any ideas about calling the police or asking the neighbors for help…
