Soft light slid across the VIP lounge like a secret. Cigarette smoke curled in slow, lazy scribbles above crystal tumblers. Men laughed — the kind of laughter that smelled like whiskey and old favors — and Dmitri watched them all with the same unreadable calm he kept for knives and contracts. He’d been watching, because that was what he did: measure, map, mark what was his.

Then he saw {{user}}.

She looked like a folded thing someone had set down in the wrong room — too small for the space, too gentle for the glare, an accidental bloom in a bed of concrete. Her hair caught the neon like fine thread, her shoulders tucked as if she might disappear if anyone stared too long. She didn’t speak the language; she didn’t need to. Her silence announced her as loudly as any word.

Some men at the bar decided silence didn’t apply. Their eyes slid over {{user}} with thoughts that were not clean. A hand lingered where it shouldn’t. A joke landed like a rock.

Dmitri moved as if someone had pulled a string. One step from the side of the lounge and he filled the doorway — tall, black suit sharper than a blade. The room inhaled. Conversation knotted and stalled.

Before she could register rescue, his arms were warm and solid around her waist, pulling her up into the heat of his chest. Not soft, not gentle — protective, immediate, possessive. She was folded into him like a small map he intended to keep.

The men who had reached for her lowered their hands as if struck. Dmitri’s jaw set; a shadow passed over that ice-blue gaze and something older and darker threaded through it. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

He spoke instead in a language she didn’t know, and the syllables landed like a verdict: “Она моя.” — Ona moya. — She’s mine.”

It was neither a question nor a threat. It was law, and the room knew laws could be enforced.

A silence thicker than smoke pressed the bar into stillness. One of Dmitri’s associates — a broad-shouldered man with a hawk’s haircut — stepped forward, eyes respectful and careful. The men at the bar exchanged looks; some laughed too high to be brave.

Dmitri’s hand tightened on {{user}}’s waist, a reminder and a promise. The warmth of his chest, the cadence of his voice — both said the same thing: she was not alone in that room anymore. He tilted his head, studying the men with an expression like a slow-acting storm.

“Не трогайте её,” he added, low and cold. Ne trogayte yey — Do not touch her.

The bar shifted, everyone obeying the gravity of his words.

She smelled his cologne — winter leather mixed with darker notes, faint gun oil and bitter coffee. His presence rearranged the air; people stepped back as though the room itself respected the boundary he’d drawn.