The rhythmic clang of the cooling furnace was the only sound in Zorya’s workspace until a sharp, insistent rapping vibrated through the metal door. Mishka, who had been curled in a golden heap near the workbench, rose with a low, rumbling growl, his hackles bristling. Zorya, polishing a freshly annealed glass pendant, frowned. Few people knocked like that. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the door, Mishka pacing beside her. Through the narrow, reinforced viewport, she saw a sleek, black aeroship idling on the industrial street, its polished hull reflecting the grey sky. Standing on her landing were Aleksey Voronin, his face a mask of cold fury, and Lev, clutching his father’s coat. Next to them, a woman in a severe grey tunic held a slim clipboard. Zorya paused, fingers tightening on the bolt. This wasn’t a casual visit. The woman wore the insignia of the Volkovgrad Department of Family Services. Mishka let out a louder, warning bark. Zorya unlocked the heavy bolts, pulling the door open just wide enough for Mishka to poke his nose through. Aleksey’s eyes, usually a glacial blue, were flat and hard. “Zorya. What have you done to this place?” His voice was low, taut with suppressed anger. “What are you talking about?” Zorya asked, her own defensive pride rising. She glanced at Lev, whose bright eyes darted nervously between his parents. His small face looked pale. “Don’t play ignorant.” Aleksey stepped forward, forcing her to open the door wider. Mishka sidestepped, allowing them entry but keeping his massive body between Lev and the strange woman. “I received these this morning.” He held up a data-slate, its screen displaying a series of high-resolution images. Zorya felt her throat tighten. They were captures of her workshop: a precarious stack of glass sheets, a dimly lit corner where an old, frayed power cable snaked across the floor, a half-eaten bowl of cereal left on a worktable, a dusty air vent. Each frame was taken from a specific, unflattering angle, designed to look like neglect, like danger. “These are staged, Aleksey!” she retorted, a tremor in her voice. “This is my livelihood, my home. There’s no danger here.” The woman with the clipboard stepped forward, her voice calm and clipped. “Ms. Morozova? I am Inspector Valeriya Shishkin, from Family Services. We’ve received an anonymous report concerning the welfare of Lev Morozov, alleging an unsafe living and working environment.” Her gaze swept across the studio, lingering on the furnace, the tools, the bags of silica and raw pigments. Cold bile rose in Zorya's throat. An anonymous report. It didn’t take a genius to know who was behind it. Katya. This was her response to being caught at the gallery. Her world, which had just begun to feel a fragile sense of hope with the Triennial, lurched violently. “Unsafe?” Zorya scoffed, though her voice wavered. “I’ve raised Lev here since he was born. He’s happy, he’s healthy.” She pulled Lev closer, feeling the fragile warmth of his small hand in hers. He coughed, a soft, dry sound that barely registered. The official made a note on her slate. “I’ll need to conduct a thorough welfare check, Ms. Morozova. This includes assessing the safety of the premises, access to appropriate nutrition, and overall living conditions.” Her eyes, cool and dispassionate, moved from the half-finished glass orchid on Zorya’s workbench to the small, curtained-off sleeping area in the corner. Aleksey watched Zorya with a chilling intensity. “The captures clearly show multiple hazards, Zorya. Exposed wiring, unsecured equipment, inadequate sanitation.” He spoke as if reading from a legal brief, devoid of personal warmth. “You think I would put my son in danger?” Zorya’s voice rose, laced with indignation. “This is what you believe? After all this time, you still think the worst of me?” The accusation stung, raw and immediate. “I think you’re prideful and reckless,” Aleksey shot back, his eyes narrowing. “And now it’s affecting Lev.” The inspector cleared her throat, interrupting their escalating argument. She held out a folded document. “Ms. Morozova, due to the nature of the allegations and the preliminary findings, I am required to issue this. It is a formal notice of a preliminary custody hearing, scheduled for next week.” The paper felt cold in Zorya’s hand, its official seal a stark black against the cream parchment. *Preliminary custody hearing.* The words blurred against the page. Her initial goal, to win the Volkov Triennial to secure financial stability, now seemed utterly trivial. The competition wasn’t about money anymore; it was about proving she was a fit mother, a competent artist, a woman worthy of her son. Katya wasn't just trying to destroy her career; she was trying to steal her child. Zorya stared at the notice, her vision blurring at the edges. Lev, still clinging to her, began to wheeze, a high-pitched whistling sound that cut through the sudden silence. Zorya snapped back to the present, her maternal instincts overriding everything else. “Lev?” she murmured, kneeling quickly. His small chest heaved with each struggling breath. His lips had a faint bluish tinge. “What’s wrong with him?” Aleksey asked, his voice losing its harsh edge, replaced by a thread of alarm. He reached out, a hesitant gesture. “His asthma,” Zorya said, already moving. “He gets attacks when he’s stressed.” She turned to a small cabinet near her sleeping area, pulling out a compact nebulizer and a small vial of medication. Her movements were swift, practiced, efficient. She didn’t look at Aleksey or the investigator, her entire focus on her son. “Levushka, breathe for Mama,” she soothed, keeping her voice even and low. She carefully positioned the mask over his face, pressing the activation button. The fine mist hissed into the air. Lev coughed, a rattling sound, then slowly, began to draw in short, shallow breaths. Shishkin watched, her professional facade cracking slightly. Her clipboard lowered, forgotten. Aleksey stood frozen, his face blanching as he saw the fear in Lev’s eyes, the desperate struggle for air. He had no idea Lev had asthma, no idea how quickly it could turn severe. He had seen the staged photos, heard Katya’s insinuations, and had come here ready to condemn. Now, confronted with a true crisis, he was helpless, while Zorya, the woman he’d just accused, was a whirlwind of calm competence. Mishka, who had been circling Lev anxiously, nudged the boy’s head with his soft nose. Lev’s breathing slowly eased, the wheezing subsiding as the medication took effect. He leaned into Zorya, exhausted, his eyes fluttering closed. Zorya held him close, stroking his hair, her gaze meeting Aleksey’s across the floor. There was no anger in her eyes now, only a raw, fierce protectiveness. Aleksey’s fury had evaporated, replaced by a profound, chilling fear. He saw Zorya not as the reckless artist he’d imagined, but as a mother, expert and unflinching in the face of her child’s suffering. The staged stills, Katya’s whispers, all of it seemed to dissolve into irrelevance beside the stark reality of Lev’s trembling breaths. Aleksey’s face had drained of color, his stare frozen with dawning horror and guilt. He looked at Zorya, then at Lev, then back at her. “I didn’t know. I will fix this.”

The Unfit Mother