ONE TO WATCH

DELYAN

Delyan Nikolov
D.O.B: 14/11/1998
Height: 6 ft 0 in (1.83 m)
Weight: 88kg
Sign of the Zodiac: Scorpio
Eye colour: Black
Nationality: Australian (Bulgarian by birth)
Occupation: Model

February 15, 2024

Delyan stood on the rooftop of the loft apartment that his wife Vi had booked for him, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold. The gothic spires of Milan cathedral stabbed at a mauve blanket of clouds transforming their stylish draping of the city skyline, into blobs of pale orange fluff.

Europe. Thank God.

If ever there was a silver lining to being without Vi, there it was, stretched out before him. It hadn't been a month since he'd arrived, but already his memory of Sydney felt opaque. With one arm held tightly against his chest, he drew a peach vape to his lips; the sweet hit of nicotine smashed through the inertia of sleep. Tilting his head back, he exhaled and watched as his breath turned to vapor and disappeared in a fleeting misty cloud.

Get going Delyan, he said to himself, bouncing on his toes to keep warm.

The morning smelled of last night's rain and something sweet and yeasty that made his stomach groan. Stepping back through the glass trap door into the womb of the apartment, Delyan stripped down as he made his way to the ensuite bathroom, leaving a messy trail of clothes strewn across the lush cream carpet. The image of the girl he'd interviewed the night before entered his mind. From the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew she'd be moving into the apartment. Charlene, her name was. Tall. Blonde. Anglo. He stepped into the shower and began a swift masturbation. The heat from the boiling water seeped deep into his frozen limbs and he came fast, imagining her lips on his cock, her long wet hair tangled between his fingers. He splashed the semen down the drain using the handheld shower head and washed his newly cropped hair.

When he was done Delyan frisked his body with a small towel and swiped the steam from the mirror above the vanity. Pushing his face close to the glass, he clenched his cheeks; the porcelain veneers that glared back at him still looked so unfamiliar. He took a glug of mouth wash, swished, and spat into the bowl. Vi was always on at him about taking care of his teeth. His chest tightened; he missed her. Reaching into the toiletry bag she'd packed for him; he took out a blister pack of thyroxine pills. The silver strip made a popping sound as he pressed a pill into his hand.

Lifting his bath robe off its hook behind the door, Delyan headed out into the corridor, still wrestling heavy fabric across his lean damp frame. Someone was up. The sound of a pot clanging against a counter signaled the kitchen. It'd be Bibiana. She was the only person in the household to rise this early and he knew the reason.

Fuck that woman!

If life had taught him anything, it was how to spot a problem a mile off, and Bibiana was that. She'd been the first female model he'd accepted into the house, a Venezuelan ex-pageant queen, as beautiful as she was self-loathing. Since moving in, she'd done nothing but complain. Fortunately, he could avoid her most days as his bedroom was out the way at the end of the corridor. Not today though, he'd decided to speak with her about her behaviour in the house; it couldn't wait.

The apartment was still in shadows. Delyan moved through the pristine space, the soft white glow of light at the end of the corridor, his guide. The polished concrete floor felt icy cold through his lightweight cotton ankle socks, and small prickly goosebumps broke out across his skin. As he'd suspected, Bibiana was standing at the stove when he entered the kitchen. She made brief eye contact and greeted him beneath her breath.

"Dobro utro."

"Utro," Delyan nodded.

She was dressed for the day; her long dark hair pulled tight in a glossy high ponytail, makeup immaculate.