Rina entered the room with no clear idea of who awaited her on the other side. The heavy oak doors creaked shut behind her, muffling the outside chatter of assistants and the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows. Inside, the air was cooler, still, laced faintly with the scent of polished wood and paper. The meeting chamber was designed for business: long table at the center, glass lamps fixed at the corners, and shadows that clung stubbornly to the walls despite the midday sun.
She wondered, briefly, what kind of client she was about to face. Requests came in all shapes—some trivial, others deadly serious. She had learned never to underestimate either.
Her gaze lifted.
At the far side of the room stood a man. He wore a beige suit that fit him with the precision of a craftsman's hand, the kind of tailoring that spoke of old money and newer ambitions. His posture was straight, almost statuesque, and when their eyes met he smiled as though he had been waiting for this moment.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was low, carrying a faint rasp, but polished. "Morozov's Fang."
The name struck her like a slap. Rina's breath caught. She wasn't globally ranked—not yet. Her title lingered only in hushed circles, a reputation whispered in shadows rather than spoken aloud.
"You… know me?" she asked, voice sharp with suspicion.
The man glanced casually around the chamber before returning his eyes to hers. His gaze was steady, unnerving in its calm."Of course I know you," he replied. "You've become quite famous, Miss Rina. Fame travels quickly."
She said nothing. Instead, she tilted her chin toward the long table, signaling with a flick of her hand. He obeyed at once, striding forward with the easy grace of someone accustomed to boardrooms and negotiations. He sat, folding his hands together on the polished surface.
Rina remained standing a moment longer, weighing him, measuring the controlled energy in his movements. Then, with a sigh sharp enough to slice the air, she approached. Her eyes narrowed, her tone cutting through the room like steel.
"Let's not waste time," she said. "What's your request?"
The man did not answer immediately. Instead, he bent to the bag resting at his side. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though he wanted her to watch each one. He rummaged briefly before withdrawing three rectangular objects.
He placed the first on the table.
It shimmered faintly in the light, a silver card etched with a black circular insignia at its center.
"My name," the man said, his voice steady, "is Nikolai. I am the owner of the Artifact Store."
Rina's brows lifted despite herself. The name was familiar—an empire whispered about, half-myth, half-fact. A place where items of history, magic, and blood intermingled. What could the Artifact Store possibly need from me? she thought.
She pulled the chair opposite him and sat down, her eyes never leaving his. "Continue."
Nikolai drew a long, deliberate breath before producing the other two cards. These were photographs, their surfaces slightly warped from handling. He spread them on the table, side by side.
Grainy CCTV stills.
The first showed a hooded figure mid-movement, caught on the verge of stealing an artifact. The man's face was partly obscured by the hood, but a sliver of his cheekbone and jawline were visible. Indistinguishable.
The second photo was zoomed in, capturing the thief's arm. Ink sprawled across his skin: an insignia, black and twisted, resembling the tangled roots of a tree.
Nikolai leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. "My request is simple," he said, pausing for effect. "Find this man… and bring him to me."
He slid the photographs across the table. Rina's fingers moved without thought, catching them neatly. She studied them in silence.
"And the reward?" she asked at last, still scanning the images.
"Money," Nikolai said smoothly. "And an artifact of your choice."
Her eyes narrowed. The photos drew her in, demanding her attention. She stared at the thief's shadowed face, trying to drag clarity from the blurred lines.
She searched. She studied. She scanned.
And then—
Kugh.
The sound tore from her throat as a sudden pain speared into her head. Her vision blurred, thoughts crashing into her skull like a flood battering a dam.
Who is this? Why does he feel so… familiar?
Her hand shot up, clutching her temple. Nails dug into her scalp as if she could hold her skull together by sheer force.
"Miss Rina!" Nikolai's voice cut through her haze, sharp with concern. He rose halfway from his chair. "Are you unwell? If you like, I can request another mafia to handle this—"
"Don't…" she rasped, breath shuddering. "Don't worry. I'll accept. Just… leave me alone for now. I'll call you later."
Nikolai froze, caught between hesitation and obedience. His jaw tightened, but at last he nodded. He gathered his bag in a swift motion, flustered now, and retreated toward the exit.
The door shut behind him. Silence swallowed the room.
Rina stayed hunched over, sweat trickling down her temple, her body trembling with each ragged breath.
It hurts… it hurts so much. Who is he? Why does just one glimpse of his face carve into my mind like this?
Her hands clawed at her scalp, scratching, as if pain could be torn away with skin.
Suddenly—the door burst open again.
The receptionist rushed in, her voice frantic."RINA! ARE YOU OKAY?"
The shout echoed off the chamber walls. But what she saw rooted her in confusion.
Rina stood tall now, her expression perfectly calm, her hands lowered. The pain had vanished as if it had never existed.
"The client said you were unwell," the receptionist stammered, eyes darting over her for any sign of distress.
Rina slammed her palm against the table, the sharp crack silencing the room. Without waiting for a reply, she strode past the receptionist.
"I'm leaving," she declared coldly. "I'll handle the client's request."
The receptionist blinked, her mind a storm of questions she dared not ask."…Oh. Okay."
And just like that, Rina was gone, leaving the chamber heavy with unanswered silence—and the lingering weight of a face that refused to leave her mind.