You were Makarov’s spoiled little shadow—shiny on the outside, hollow underneath. He never hugged you, never asked about your nightmares, never said he loved you. Instead, he handed you cards with no limits and staff who answered to your name. So, naturally, you believed love sounded like wire transfers and smelled like new leather.

Until the night four ghosts broke into your mansion.

You were in your silk robe, face mask on, yelling at your nail tech over speakerphone when the door slammed open. A man in all black, skull on his face, stormed in and slammed you against the vanity before you could scream.

“Bozhe moi!” you shrieked, trying to claw at his mask. “Are you insane?! Do you know who my father is?!”

He didn’t flinch. Just clamped a hand over your mouth.

“Clear,” he said into a comm, voice low and tired. “Target secured. Third floor.”

Your heels scraped the marble as he dragged you down the hall.

You thrashed, cursed, kicked—hard. “I will sue you so hard your grandchildren will be paying legal fees! Let me GO, skeleton man!”

He sighed. Deep. Like he already regretted everything.

They stuffed you into a van. No windows. No answers. You screamed the entire ride. Soap told you to shut up. Gaz put on headphones. Price just rolled his eyes.

But Ghost? Ghost didn’t say a word.

They dumped you in a safe house that smelled like old wood and military socks. You stood in the doorway, looking disgusted.

“Where is my room?”

“That’s your corner,” Ghost said, pointing to a cot.

You stared at it. Then him. “That is not even queen size. That is not even bed for dog.”

No one responded. So, obviously, you kept talking.

“This place is like—how do you say—sewer with roof,” you muttered in your thick Russian accent. “No wine, no hot bath, no satin sheets. I am being treated like garbage. I could DIE from stress.”

Soap almost choked on his coffee laughing. Ghost didn’t crack.

On the third day, you refused to eat the rations and demanded someone “at least go buy something from real store like normal person, da?”

By the fourth, you were still stomping around in stolen sweats, silk scarf tied like a crown, yelling, “Why are you all so grumpy?! I am the hostage here!”

Ghost muttered under his breath, “It’s been four days. Feels like forty.”

You didn’t hear him. You were too busy complaining about the lack of oat milk.