The mansion was a sprawling architectural ego trip, a museum dedicated to a history I was forbidden to read.
That afternoon, Yuri was away on "business"—a word that, from his lips, always carried the weight of a death sentence. Taking advantage of a rare moment where Elena was distracted by a delivery, I slipped away. I retreated to the third floor, finding a narrow, forgotten hallway tucked behind a heavy velvet curtain. At its terminus stood a door of dark, unpolished oak. Unlike every other portal in this high-tech fortress, this one had no biometric scanner or keypad. It had only a simple, archaic iron lock.
I pulled a hairclip from my head, a relic from my rebellious teenage years. My hands were trembling, the metal scraping against the iron with a frantic, rhythmic click.
The door groaned open on rusted hinges.
The room inside was a time capsule, preserved in a layer of gray dust. It lacked the clinical, cold perfection of the rest of the estate. The air was thick with the scent of dried flowers and old paper. The walls were papered with sketches—jagged, violent renderings of the sea that looked more like open wounds than landscapes. In the center of the space sat a vanity with a mirror that had been shattered from the center out, like a frozen star.
I picked up a silver hairbrush from the table. Engraved on the back was a single, elegant letter: S.
"She didn't like the silence either."
I spun around, my heart nearly stopping as it slammed against my ribs. Yuri was framed in the doorway, his massive silhouette blotting out the light from the corridor. He didn't look angry. He looked... hollow, as if the room were an anchor dragging him into the past.
"Who was she?" I whispered, clutching the silver brush to my chest like a talisman.
Yuri stepped into the room, his boots disturbing the dust on the floor. His eyes scanned the skeletal furniture with a pained recognition. "My sister, Sofia. She lived in this cage long before you were even a thought in your father's mind. She used to believe she could fly from the balcony if she just tried hard enough."
I looked toward the window, at the reinforced glass I knew was designed to withstand a bomb blast. "Did she?"
"She tried," Yuri said, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp that sounded like it was being torn from his throat. "Gravity is the only thing more honest than a Volkov, Jessy. My father kept her here to 'protect' her from his rivals. In the end, he was the one she needed protection from. He was the one who broke her."
He walked toward me, his presence heavy and suffocating in the small room. He took the hairbrush from my hand, his fingers lingering on the silver for a heartbeat before setting it back on the vanity.
"Is that what I am to you?" I asked, my voice trembling with a sudden, sharp clarity. "A replacement for a ghost? A second chance to get the cage right?"
Yuri's gaze snapped to mine, the vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. The cold, flinty steel returned to his eyes, sharper than ever.
"You are the Ghost Code, Jessy. You are the key to the empire my father built and the one I intend to rule. That is your purpose." He stepped into my space, his breath cold against my forehead. "But every time you look at me with that defiance—every time you breathe a word of rebellion—I forget about the list. I forget about the debt. And that makes you the most dangerous thing in this house."
He turned on his heel, the authority returning to his stride. "The door stays locked, Jessy. Don't come here again."