I was always the quiet, dangerous type. When I was six, my parents were killed—shot in the head by some random drug dealers who broke in for money. Right there, in front of me. Since that day, I feel nothing. Not sadness, not happiness. Just anger…and something else, something primal. I never had a real relationship. Hookups, one-night stands—that was all I knew. I went into the military as soon as I could. Death didn’t scare me. No one was waiting for me. Why not? Because of my emotionless efficiency and sharp mind, I ended up in the spy program. And that’s how I came to America—for a mission. High-level stuff. Secrets. Kill orders. No mistakes allowed. The problem? I’m Russian. Military. Six-foot-six, built like a tank. Not exactly someone who blends in. Part of my cover required…marriage. I didn’t want it. But here we are. Then I got a file. A woman. My future wife. Psychology PhD student. Needed a green card. I needed a wife—for appearances. We met in some random cafe. She was…nice, I guess. Awkward. Not my type. But she liked to observe, to analyze. Didn’t argue outright, but I could feel her mind working on me, studying me. Quick, sharp. It was like talking to a detective, not a date. A month later, we were married. A stranger in a church. Had to look official. I even hired people to play my parents. Pathetic. We didn’t kiss. She didn’t spend the night. Soon, we moved into some big house together. She was quiet. Barely spoke. Had her routine—I never paid much attention. Leaves early, comes home late.