1.
Moscow—a living chessboard of life and death.A crowded city, and a dangerous one. Moscow is like a vast labyrinth, riddled with threats that bloom after nightfall. They call it a double-edged knife, because in the morning it feels like a peaceful place, filled with lively voices and movement—but when night comes, it changes. It becomes a wolf stalking its prey. Every road, every street corner can turn into an invisible trap. The dim yellow streetlights do not bring safety; they only make the darkness behind them sink even deeper. In Moscow, no one is truly innocent once night falls—there are only hunters and the hunted.
Deals and contracts are signed in silence, secrets buried deep beneath layers of white snow. One wrong step, and you can vanish forever into a faceless crowd, eroded by cold, power, and unseen fears.
The cold wind swept across the walls. Snow had fallen, soon to blanket the entire district.He stood there, the freezing wind filling his lungs, his face cold and unreadable. One hand rested loosely on the railing, icy to the touch, expressionless—as if he were calculating something. Behind him was a large office, seemingly warm and comfortable. On the wooden desk lay countless stacks of documents scattered messily, papers left half-signed, a cup of coffee that had once been steaming now completely cold.
Footsteps echoed behind him. A male voice spoke—solemn, loyal.
"Sir… everything has been taken care of."
"No mistakes."
Exactly what he wanted to hear. He didn't turn around, only gave a slight nod. He looked down at the silent city below, then stepped back into the room.
"She's arrived… Sir. How will you handle it?"
He fell silent, thinking.
"Don't touch her," he said. "Not yet."
The man behind him paused, but said nothing.
A long silence followed. Outside, the wind howled between the towering buildings, and the snow fell thicker, covering the entire city in white.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
He remained standing by the window long after the man had stopped speaking. Moscow lay beneath him—quiet, obedient, deceiving. Snow fell without urgency, soft enough to hide blood, heavy enough to erase footprints. It always did.
"She shouldn't have come back," the man said carefully, as if testing the ice.
A faint breath left his lips. Not an answer. Not disagreement.
Coming back was never about choice.
He turned away from the window at last. The office lights revealed the exhaustion carved into his features—sharp, controlled, untouched by mercy. He reached for a file on the desk. Her name sat on the cover, printed in neat black letters. Too neat. Too clean for someone who had once disappeared without permission.
He opened it.
Photographs.
Surveillance reports.
Time stamps.
Alive. Unharmed. Still careless.
"She's being watched," the man continued. "By others."
That earned him a glance. Cold. Measuring.
"Who?"
"A few familiar faces. They're cautious."
So they knew.
His fingers tightened slightly around the folder before relaxing again.
"Good," he said. "Let them watch."
The man stiffened. "Sir?"
"If they move," he went on calmly, "they expose themselves."
"And her?"
He closed the folder.
"No one touches her."
A pause.
"Not because she's fragile," he added. "But because she belongs to a past that hasn't finished bleeding yet."
Outside, a low rumble echoed through the city—traffic, or thunder, or something deeper. Moscow never needed a reason to sound like a warning.
"She doesn't remember what she owes," the man said.
"Oh, she remembers," he replied quietly. "She's just pretending she doesn't."
He placed the file back on the desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. Control, always control.
"Let her settle in," he said. "Let her believe she's invisible."
The man nodded once. "And when she realizes she isn't?"
A slow, dangerous calm settled over him.
"By then," he said, "it will already be too late."
Snow continued to fall, blanketing the city in white.
But beneath it, something old had begun to stir—patient, inevitable, and very much awake.