Darius stood by the window, holding the phone in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.
His face was chalk‑white.
Drops of sweat glistened on his forehead.
“What happened?” Kiana asked calmly, leaning against the doorframe.
He flinched, turning around sharply.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine. You’re pale and smoking indoors.”
He swallowed, looking away.
“Mom texted. She’s having trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
A pause.
Darius took a drag and exhaled the smoke out the cracked window.
“I don’t know exactly. Something with the bank. She went to the ATM, tried to withdraw money, and they blocked the card and called security. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Kiana walked closer, looking at him intently.
“That’s odd. Why did she go to the ATM late at night?”
“How should I know? Maybe she needed cash urgently.”
Darius nervously extinguished the cigarette on the windowsill.
“Kiki, I don’t know. She wrote that it was a misunderstanding, that they accused her of attempted fraud. It’s nonsense.”
Kiana nodded.
“I see. And whose card was she trying to use?”
He froze, looking at her with a long, scrutinizing gaze.
Something flashed in his eyes—fear, suspicion, despair.
“Hers, probably. Whose else?”
“I don’t know. You know best.”
The silence stretched on.
They stood facing each other, and the air between them was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.
“I don’t know anything,” Darius finally choked out. “Absolutely nothing. It’s some kind of mistake.”
Kiana smirked.
“A mistake, of course.”
She turned and headed for the kitchen.
