The Prey
"I'm so sorry, dear, but we need someone who can… understand… take… orders?"
Rejection number six.
I forced a tight-lipped smile, nodding as if I hadn't already heard variations of this all day. No matter how much I tried to explain, the answer was always the same. They needed someone local, someone fluent, someone who wouldn’t make their job harder. And honestly? I couldn't even blame them.
"It’s fine," I swallowed my frustration.
But it wasn’t fine.
"Have a good day."
I hesitated. That’s it? Not even a second of consideration? I needed this job—desperately. My fingers curled tighter around my bag strap as I bit back the urge to plead. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked out, head held high despite the burning sting of rejection gnawing at my chest.
Lucky number seven, right?
The bitter cold greeted me as I stepped outside, icy tendrils creeping through my jeans like little reminders of just how unprepared I was for this country. I shoved my hands into my pockets, rubbing them together in a futile attempt at warmth. My breath curled in the air, disappearing as quickly as my hopes for employment.
Note to self: never trust the weather forecast.
By the time I reached my dorm, exhaustion weighed heavy on my bones. Between humiliating myself in class, spending hours buried in books at the library, and scouring every café and store for work, I had nothing left to give.
I skipped dinner, changing into warm clothes before sinking into bed.
For once, I didn’t overthink. Sleep came easily, my mind too drained to replay every awkward moment of the day.
Tomorrow, I reminded myself hazily. Get the damn glasses fixed.
❁
"Everything good, dorogaya?" Alina asked as I slumped into the seat beside her.
My gaze dropped to my breakfast—a bowl of soup and a piece of bread—and my mouth twisted in distaste. "If getting rejected from six places in a row is considered good, then yeah, I'm fucking marvelous."
I didn’t even feel like eating anymore. Hope had officially packed its bags and left the building. If only I’d taken Russian seriously in high school instead of assuming English would be enough.
"Told ya." Alina smirked, stirring her coffee. "You can still consider my offer, though."
I scoffed, narrowing my eyes. "No thanks. You enjoy your shady part-time—I’m fine."
"Oh, come on, it's not shady," she said, grinning mischievously. "It just offers… more."
I shot her a deadpan look. "More what?"
She leaned in, eyes twinkling with mischief. "See, you just have to dress pretty, sway your hips a little, and they’ll throw money at you."
Dress pretty and sway my hips? Sure. Because I totally had the grace of a swan and not the coordination of a drunk giraffe. Maybe I could charge people for entertainment—watch me trip over my own feet and somehow set an entire table on fire.
"You mean a bar dancer?" I sighed, shaking my head. "No, I'm good."
Alina shrugged and turned away, diving into a rapid conversation in Russian with another friend. I stared at my soup, my brain spiraling into its usual morning existential crisis.
Maybe I should consider stand-up comedy. My life was a joke anyway. Or mime. How hard could it be to pretend I was trapped in an invisible box? Knowing my luck, I’d probably end up in an actual one.
A girl plopped down beside me, her oversized round glasses sliding down her nose as she tucked a newspaper under her arm. My gaze flicked to the paper, then to my own glasses—currently being held together by duct tape. Right. Another thing to add to my ever-growing list of responsibilities.
But just as I resigned myself to my sad excuse of a breakfast, something caught my eye.
One word.
One beautiful, job-securing, fate-altering word, printed in bold letters in the sea of Russian text.
Employee needed.
My spoon nearly went flying as I lunged for the newspaper, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The girl shot me a murderous glare, but I couldn’t care less. With shaking hands, I shoved the paper at Alina, practically vibrating with perseverance.
"Translate this. Now."
Alina blinked at me, startled, then skimmed the ad. Her expression went from mildly intrigued to utterly shocked.
"Holy shit," she breathed. "They're hiring a caretaker... and it offers—fuck!"
I grabbed her arm, my pulse skyrocketing. "What?"
Her wide eyes snapped to mine. "Ten… Thousand. Dollars."
I swear, my soul left my body for a second.
Ten thousand dollars?
My eyebrows shot up so high, they nearly disappeared into my hairline.
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
Alina’s finger trembled as she jabbed at the bottom of the newspaper, as if she’d just discovered the lost treasure of El Dorado.
"The details...!" she squealed, her Russian spilling out in excitement.
I half-expected her to break into a full-blown celebratory dance, complete with jazz hands and dramatic twirls. Luckily, she limited herself to fist pumps and ear-piercing squeals, which was still enough to turn heads in the cafeteria.
Meanwhile, I sat frozen, my brain lagging behind reality.
Ten thousand dollars.
Was I dreaming? Did I accidentally sell my soul in my sleep and forget about it? Because that was the only reasonable explanation.
With shaky hands that felt more like overcooked spaghetti noodles, I fumbled for my phone and dialled the number. If I landed this job, I’d be making daily offerings of chocolate and coffee to every deity in existence. Maybe even throw in a cinnamon roll for good measure.
As the phone rang, my heart pounded so hard I was convinced the entire cafeteria could hear it.
Pick up, pick up, pick up—
"Привет?"
I swallowed hard.
"Am I speaking to Kyle Molotov?"
Silence.
A long, awkward pause stretched between us. I mentally kicked myself—English, really? Of course, he wouldn’t understand.
I took a deep breath and tried again, my Russian wobbling like a newborn deer.
“Hello, this is Seraphina. I saw the advertisement and wanted to know if this vacancy is available.”
The man’s voice was deep yet polite. "I'll send you the address, and we can meet here to discuss.”
"Oh, yes, yes!"
I jumped up so fast I nearly knocked myself into the wall. My fingers fumbled as I tried to steady the phone, and before I could say anything else, the call ended.
I stared at my screen, my grin stretching so wide it might’ve split my face in half. I probably looked like an overexcited puppy that just realized it was getting a treat.
But who cared?
I had an interview.
Bolting to my dorm, I yanked on a warm sweater and a fluffy scarf, wrestling them over my head like I was fighting a wild animal. Then came the jacket—except my hair decided now was the perfect time to stage a rebellion, sticking out in every possible direction like a science experiment gone wrong.
Who needed enemies when your own hair was out to get you?
I wrangled it into a messy bun, grabbed my bag and lip gloss, and called for a taxi.
This was happening.
I just had to not fuck it up.