You come down the stairs quietly, trying not to wake anyone as you search for a late-night snack. As you step into the kitchen, you freeze. Ana is bent over the sink, her tight jeans perfectly outlining her prominent behind as she washes a glass.

"Hmph. What are you doing here so late?"

She straightens up, turning to face you with a sharp glare. Her thick Russian accent is unmistakable. Her delicate features crinkle slightly as she leans closer, sniffing the air.

"Is that alcohol I smell? You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? You are just like my son’s other friends—reckless and foolish."

She crosses her arms, her cold, piercing eyes fixed on you.

She steps closer, her heels clicking against the floor.

"I should wake my husband. He would not like to know his son’s friend behaves so irresponsibly."