2874–2878, the five solar cycles that followed
Rurik trained her personally.
Attack.
Defense.
Military tactics.
She learned how to handle every weapon—firearms and blades alike.
But the sniper rifle?
The rifle sang in her hands.
Every shot echoed as if it were the rhythm of the lunation—
blood, pause, breath, aim.
Rurik noticed.
That was why he trained her with even greater severity, passing on every trick he knew.
He had been a decorated elite sniper in the Russian Army before he and Hedeon joined the Vorovskoy mir.
"Go on."
"What?"
"Why did you and my father leave the Army?"
Maybe it was the hundredth time she had asked.
He remained silent.
After training, she spent her nights in Hedeon's office, where hundreds of documents lay scattered across the table.
He taught her everything about the Vorovskoy mir.
Trix cared little for the international trade routes, or the organization's activities, or even how each division functioned.
She wanted to know about him—what he liked, what he did besides being the most powerful Pakhan.
"Say it again."
Trix rolled her eyes.
"The elite group is the highest rank.
Administration.
Organization.
Ideology."
She recited it like a song.
"The security group ensures harmony with other organizations and the loyalty of members.
The support group handles the money, choosing who gets into an operation."
Trix leaned back in the chair.
"And the labor unit?
Collectors. Loan sharks. Street gangs. Trash."
She looked straight into Hedeon's eyes.
"And the Pakhan?
The Pakhan controls everything.
As long as he breathes, any fate can fall into the hands of the Vorovskoy mir."
Trix sighed.
Silence.
"Can we talk about something else?"
Hedeon only gestured for her to leave.
Not a look.
Not a word.
She clenched her fists.
Obeyed.
Rurik stood by the door.
"No luck, svoloch?"
"Idi na khui," she muttered. Go fuck yourself.
He laughed, then touched her shoulder.
"He loves you, you know that, right?"
Trix pulled away.
Her brows drew together.
"Then maybe he should say it."
He had seemed different in the messages.
A bitter taste filled her mouth.
He said he loved her, that he wanted her close, that they would do everything together.
"It feels like he…"
She didn't want to say lied.
She swallowed the words.
Rurik exhaled cigarette smoke.
"You still have a lot to learn."
She ignored him and walked to her room.
At the door, Tikhon stood with his arms crossed.
Tall. Broad. Short fair hair.
Orange eyes tracking her every step.
"What do you want this time, svoloch?"
Trix sighed, sulking.
This guy had been assigned to protect her.
To her, though, it was just another way for Hedeon to keep watch.
Had to be.
Even if Tikhon was all friendly—and the only one who could make her laugh in that pigsty.
So what if he listened to her in a way no one else did?
Especially on the days when hatred and longing danced inside her?
She didn't even understand why it was so easy to talk to him.
Almost natural.
"Nothing much, ryzhik.
Just making sure you don't set everything on fire before bed."
He raised an eyebrow.
The corner of his mouth pulling into the smile she claimed to hate.
Trix rolled her eyes.
When she tried to open the door, his arm blocked her.
"Go tell Hedeon I'm planning to burn it all down."
She crossed her arms.
His smile widened.
"You know I do things differently, ryzhik.
My loyalty is yours."
Whenever he said that, something inside her stirred in a different way.
It was hard to deny the truth in those words, but she knew he sent reports to Rurik.
What did he write in them?
What did he say about her?
Did he describe her weaknesses?
The silences that screamed louder than words?
It made no sense.
Or maybe it did.
That unsettled her.
Doubt was a thorn buried deep inside her.
"Shut up.
You lie like all of them."
She tried the door again, but his arm stopped her, subtle as ever.
Tikhon locked eyes with her.
"I do lie sometimes, but not to you, ryzhik."
His tone was firm.
"By the way, I liked the melody you were humming yesterday."
Trix froze.
"It felt like you were talking to me."
He went on.
"I guess to anyone who was listening."
For a second, everything inside her hung suspended.
He moved his arm away from the door.
"Spokoynoy nochi.
I'll be here.
If you need anything, just call me."
He wished her good night.
Trix let out a sharp Tsc.
She opened the door and threw herself onto the bed, as if she could crush her doubts into the mattress that creaked beneath her.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep did not come at once.
She missed being with someone other than those bastards.
Maybe Tikhon was different from the others.
Maybe he was exactly the same.
She shook her head.
She would never let herself be deceived.
To believe that would be to set herself on fire.
She missed her mother.
The comforting touch of hands that had once been shelter, that had held her long ago, but were absent now.
Trix sighed.
The dark ceiling above her.
An invisible cell.
Maybe, in another life, if she had been born different from Akilina Orlov Volkov—
one where the weight of her name had been an open door, not a prison.
That night, she decided:
Her name would be more than a burden.
It would be a secret.
A flame.
She would reveal it only to someone capable of crossing the barriers raised in her skin and reaching the deep beating of her heart.
A destiny only she would choose to unveil.
Until then, she preferred to forget she even had one.