The late afternoon sun spilled through the kitchen window of Alёna’s modest suburban home, casting golden streaks across the slightly cluttered countertops. Pots and pans hung in a chaotic symphony above the stove, and a half-empty coffee mug sat forgotten near the sink. Alёna, a striking woman in her early 40s with sharp cheekbones and a no-nonsense air, stood at the cutting board, wielding a chef’s knife with a ferocity that could make anyone flinch. Each chop of the carrots and onions rang out like a declaration of war, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, a few rebellious strands framing her intense hazel eyes. She wasn’t just prepping dinner—she was imagining someone’s head rolling under her blade.
The back door creaked open, and her son, Alex, shuffled in, his lanky 19-year-old frame slouched as if the weight of the world rested on his bony shoulders. He avoided her gaze, his sneakers scuffing against the linoleum as he muttered something under his breath about another failed test. His hoodie hung off him like a tent, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, a telltale sign of guilt.
Alёna stopped mid-chop, the knife hovering ominously above a defenseless carrot. Her piercing gaze snapped to Alex, pinning him to the spot like a butterfly under glass. “What was that, malysh?” she asked, her voice a low, dangerous purr laced with her faint Russian accent. “Speak up. I’m not a mind reader, though God knows I’ve tried to be with you.”
Alex shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but her face. “I, uh, flunked another test. Chemistry. It’s… whatever. Not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Alёna’s tone sharpened, her knife still suspended in midair. “You think I’m slaving away in this kitchen, keeping a roof over your head, just so you can shrug off failing like it’s a bad haircut? Nyet, Alexei. What’s really going on at that university? And don’t you dare lie to me—I’ll smell it on you faster than cheap cologne.”
He fidgeted, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing. “It’s just stress, okay? Tough professors. Hard classes. I’m… I’m trying, Ma.”
“Trying?” Alёna slammed the knife down on the cutting board, the sound echoing through the small kitchen like a gavel in a courtroom. Alex jumped, his eyes finally meeting hers, wide and startled. “Don’t give me that ‘trying’ nonsense. You look like a scared little puppy, tail between your legs. I raised a man, not a whimpering mutt. Spit it out, Alex. Now.”
Under the unrelenting heat of her stare, Alex crumbled like a house of cards. He sighed, his shoulders slumping further—if that was even possible—and muttered, “There’s this guy. Jack. He’s… he’s been making things hard for me. Like, really hard.”
Alёna’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in her cheek as her maternal instincts roared to life, a lioness ready to tear apart anything threatening her cub. “Making things hard how?” she demanded, crossing her arms, her apron smeared with vegetable juice like war paint. “What’s this Jack doing? Tell me everything, or I’ll drag it out of you with pliers if I have to.”
Alex hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “He… he taunts me. Calls me names in front of everyone. Shoves me around sometimes. Makes me look like an idiot. It’s embarrassing, Ma.”
“Embarrassing?” Alёna’s voice dripped with disdain, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Some punk is humiliating my son, and you’re worried about embarrassment? Where does this little brat hang out? What does he look like? What exactly has he said? I want details, Alex. Don’t make me play detective when I’d rather play executioner.”
He shifted again, clearly torn, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s usually at the campus quad after classes. Tall guy, always in a leather jacket, thinks he’s hot shit. But Ma, please—don’t get involved. He… he said if I snitch, it’ll get worse. Way worse. I can handle it. I don’t need you fighting my battles.”
Alёna scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out of her head. “Handle it? You, my sweet soft-boiled egg, couldn’t handle a paper cut without crying for mama. You think I’m going to sit here, sipping tea, while some wannabe tough guy torments my only child? Over my dead body, malysh. Or better yet, over his.”
She wiped her hands on her apron with a decisive swipe, her mind already racing with plans. Alex didn’t need to know what she was plotting—not yet. Let him think she’d drop it. But Alёna Petrova didn’t drop anything, especially not a threat to her blood. She turned to the sink, rinsing her hands, her movements deliberate as she calculated her next move.
Without a word, she strode to the small kitchen table, pulled her laptop from its spot next to a pile of unpaid bills, and flipped it open. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, diving into social media, university forums, anywhere she could dig up dirt on this Jack character. Alex hovered nearby, chewing his lip, but she shot him a look that said, *Sit down or get out.* He chose to sit, silently watching as her eyes scanned the screen with predatory focus.
It didn’t take long. A few clicks, a few searches, and there he was—a photo of Jack, smirking at the camera like he owned the world, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The comments under his profile painted a clear picture: cocky, cruel, a total jackass. Pun intended.
Alёna leaned back in her chair, a slow, dangerous smirk curling her lips as she stared at the screen. “Oh, little wannabe tough guy,” she muttered under her breath, her voice a dark promise. “You have no idea who you’ve just pissed off. I’m going to carve that smug grin right off your pretty face.”
She snapped the laptop shut with a sharp click, the sound final, like the cocking of a gun. Rising from the table, she grabbed her car keys from the hook by the door, the metal jangling in her grip. Alex looked up, alarmed, but before he could protest, she fixed him with a glare that could melt steel.
“Stay here. Finish the vegetables if you want dinner. Mama’s got business to handle.”
And with that, Alёna stepped out into the fading light, a determined glint in her eye, ready to track down Jack and set things straight—her way.
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