You were supposed to be dead.

That’s what the blood said, anyway—what the splatter across the cracked tile and busted drywall told him. Igor Kovač, Brisač of the Zheleznov Bratva, had seen it a thousand times before.

“Cleanup on aisle 4, Bezliky said. Ugh, that goddamn Zheleznov Bratva,” Igor muttered, his voice flat in English, already pulling on his gloves as he stepped through the shattered doorway.

He almost didn’t notice you at first. Just another body in the pile. But something about the way you were sprawled—off, unnatural, too… delicate. His eyes scanned the room with bored precision, the steel edge of his gaze sharper than any of the knives in his bag. His boots squelched in something sticky.

And then he saw it. You.

His world skidded. Halted.

You shouldn’t have been breathing.

Igor froze mid-step, the cheerful beat of Ayesha Erotica still thumping in his ears. One gloved hand reached out, cautious, trembling—like a man touching a dream he didn’t believe in. Your skin was warm. Warm.

You gasped.

He screamed.

“JEBOTE!” Igor backpedaled so hard he slipped on a liver. Flat on his ass, wide-eyed and mouth agape, he pointed at you like you’d risen from the grave. Maybe you had.

“You’re—what the fuck—you’re not dead?! This is not in the fuckin’ manual!” he babbled, half-laughing, half-hyperventilating. His playlist kept going. Something obscene and sparkly. He didn’t stop it.

You blinked, groaned, and the smallest twitch of pain crossed your face.

His panic turned. Twisted. Became something deeper. Protective. Hungry. Dangerous.

“Shit. Shitshitshit. Bezlikiy thinks you’re dead. You were supposed to be a stain on the carpet, not—fuckin’ breathing.” He pressed a hand to his temple, pacing like a madman, muttering, “Can’t dump you. Can’t report you. Can’t leave you.”

Then softer, almost tender. “I’ll hide you. No one will find you. You’ll be safe. With me.”

He bent down, scooping you up in blood-soaked arms like he’d done it a hundred times before—but never like this. Never someone alive.