The crack of the latch sounded drier and louder than the laughter spilling from the living room.
The sound felt as if it wasn’t just an ordinary apartment door closing behind me, but some more final, harder boundary snapping shut.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the balcony and watched a thick, cloudy raindrop slowly crawl down its surface. Down below, the city glowed dimly, as if even the lights were tired that evening.
On the other side stood Stas, in front of the plastic balcony door, holding a fogged-up glass. The ice inside had already melted halfway, turning the whisky into a diluted, yellowish swirl.
His friends, Pasha and Artem, were sitting in the living room, but their posture made it clear they didn’t know where to put themselves. As if they wanted to laugh and disappear at the same time.
— Just sit there, Natasha — Stas tapped the glass right in front of my face with his finger. — Think a little. About how you talk to me when there are guests. About your tone. About who makes the decisions in this house. An hour of silence will do you good. Fresh air, clears the mind.
I didn’t pull the handle. I knew it was locked. He always made sure I didn’t have a choice.
I just looked at his face: flushed, slightly twisted with self-satisfaction, and carrying that tense, unsettling sense of power that made my stomach tighten.
— Stas, open it — I said calmly, almost flatly. Everything inside me was clenched, but my voice stayed smooth. — You have guests. Don’t you think this is… strange?
— Me? — he laughed too loudly, too theatrically. The whisky nearly spilled. — I’m perfectly fine. Guys, it doesn’t bother you that Natasha decided to get some fresh air, right?
Pasha coughed and looked away. Artem suddenly became very interested in his phone, as if the tiny screen contained an escape route.
They were Stas’s subordinates at AgroPromSnab, small cogs in a big machine that he considered his kingdom just because he had a higher chair in an office.
I turned toward the glass. Eighth floor. Below, the lights of Saransk blinked sparsely, and in the parking lot stood our Volkswagen Jetta, which we had bought on credit last March.
The loan was in my name. The bank wouldn’t have approved Stas because of his old debts, especially unpaid child support from his first marriage.
I pulled a thin flannel shirt over my shoulders from the drying rack. It was cold and smelled slightly damp, a mix of detergent and dust.
Stas turned off the balcony light. Now only the bright light from the living room spilled outward, turning him into a dark silhouette behind the glass.
He said something to his friends, and they laughed again, more confidently this time. Plates clinked. The pilaf I had cooked for three hours was already on the table, and they were eating it without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I reached into my pocket. My phone was still with me. Stas had forgotten to take it when he pushed me out here. Maybe he thought I’d cry and call my mother, begging for help. But I wasn’t going to call anyone.
The screen lit up. An email from work: from the holding’s CEO.
“Optimization Project 2026. Regional cluster – Mordovia.”
The company Stas worked for had been acquired by an international holding two weeks earlier.
He still didn’t know that his “safe little world,” his status with a company car, his sense of control over the office, and his illusion that he could lock people out onto his balcony — all of it had ended the day the deal was signed in Moscow.
I logged into the system. As HR director, I had full access to all documents. In the “Pending Approval” folder was the redundancy package. Line seven read: “Pechersky S. V.”
Reason: structural optimization. Labor Code Article 81, Clause 2.
I stared at the screen. Battery: 42%. Enough.
Meanwhile, Stas was pouring wine inside. The laughter grew louder. They were eating the pilaf directly from the pot. The fork scraped against metal. I was counting the lines in the document.
Nine people. The entire sales department was being dissolved, its functions outsourced to Samara.
The CEO had asked me to review it one more time before final approval. There were no pregnant employees or single parents listed. Stas was neither. Just a man who thought you could safely lock your wife out on a balcony.
My finger hovered over the “Approve” button.
He thinks I’m crying. He thinks I’m begging.
I pressed it.
The screen briefly went dark, then displayed: “Document signed with qualified electronic signature.”
The next step was automatic notification dispatch. Normally, this happened on Monday morning. But the system allowed immediate sending.
I clicked it.
In the living room, Stas was still laughing.
Then his phone lit up.
A single blue notification.
He didn’t notice it immediately. He kept talking, gesturing. Then a second message arrived.
And a third.
Then silence.
Stas picked up the phone. I watched his face slowly change. First confusion. Then tension. Then something deeper, darker.
— Pasha — he said suddenly, hoarsely. — Look at this… is this some kind of joke?
Pasha leaned in and went pale. Artem stepped closer too. Three men bent over a small glowing screen like they were looking at the site of an accident.
— “Notice of termination of employment…” — Artem read aloud. — This… this is official.
— What termination? — Stas shook his head. — We ship tomorrow! This is a mistake!
Pasha pulled out his phone too.
— I got it too.
— Me too — Artem said.
The air froze.
Stas suddenly turned toward me. His face was no longer confident. It was panic.
— Natasha! — he shouted. — This is a system error! Check it!
I slowly stepped into the living room.
— There’s no error — I said. — I signed the document.
Silence fell. A heavy, ringing silence.
— You… what? — Stas’s voice trembled.
— The entire department has been eliminated. Sales is being outsourced.
Everything in his expression collapsed.
— You knew? — he whispered.
— Yes. And I signed it.
Pasha and Artem backed away. They didn’t want to be part of this anymore.
Stas stepped closer, but there was no strength in him now. Only desperation.
— This is insane! We… we live off that!
— I lived off it too — I said calmly. — Until you locked me on the balcony so I could “think.”
That stopped him.
His gaze went hollow.
Then he slowly sat down.
As if all weight had suddenly fallen onto him at once.
His friends quietly put on their jackets and left.
The apartment emptied.
Only the two of us remained.
He sat in the chair, staring at his phone.
I picked up my bag.
— Where are you going? — he asked quietly.
— Out.
— Because of one evening?
I looked at him.
— No. Because this isn’t one evening. It’s your pattern.
Then I walked out the door.
And for the first time in a long time, there was no fear inside me. Only silence. And something strangely clean and light.
