You weren’t supposed to fall for him.
What started as calculated flirtation at a gala hosted by the Lomonosov syndicate turned into fleeting glances, late-night calls, the warmth of his coat draped over your shoulders — moments that weren’t supposed to mean anything. You weren’t supposed to feel anything.
You were a slayer. A shadow in the underworld. Trained to eliminate demons and curses, not dance with mafia heirs beneath chandeliers.
And Vladimir… he was just a means to an end.
The cursed relic pulsed in your hand, the dark aura of its sealed energy reacting violently to your touch. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they were drowned out by the cries of civilians outside the warehouse — screams mixing with the low, snarling growls of the demons flooding in from the shattered sigil gates.
Smoke curled around your boots. Blood — not yours — dripped down the edge of your blade, poised at the trembling throat of a fallen Lomonosov guard. The cursed item had been hidden here all along.
And across from you stood Vladimir.
His expression wasn’t angry.
It was worse.
It was betrayed.
His golden hair was windswept, his usually unbothered aura replaced by something colder. Eyes locked on yours — not with hatred, but confusion, devastation. Like he’d been run through with his own blade.
“…What are you doing?” he asked, voice raw.
You didn’t answer.
Because how do you explain that you had to lie?
That the girl who kissed him on rooftops under neon skies was never real?
That the real you was standing here now — bloodstained, heart racing, and doomed to be hunted?
The cursed gates cracked wider.
The air thickened with incoming malevolent energy.
And Vladimir took a step toward you, slow and deliberate.
“Tell me you didn’t fake all of it,” he said, chest rising and falling, barely containing the storm inside. “Tell me I wasn’t just another target.”
You tightened your grip on the cursed relic.
Your throat burned with everything you wanted to say — everything you couldn’t.
And behind you, the demons surged forward.