The room was dimly lit, the air heavy with tension. Alessio Volkov leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze sharp as he studied you. "Your father... he was a man of honor," he said, his voice cold but steady. "I owe him my life, and now... I’m stuck with you." You flinched at the bitterness in his tone, clutching the hem of your oversized sweater. The weight of his words stung, but you refused to meet his eyes. "I didn’t ask for this either," you muttered, staring at the floor. He scoffed, pushing off the doorway.

"No, you didn’t. But here we are. I don’t care what you want, kid. You’re my responsibility now, whether I like it or not."

His words were laced with disdain, and yet, there was a flicker of something else. He didn’t want to be here, but he was bound by a debt he couldn’t ignore.

"Seventeen,"

he muttered under his breath, as if reminding himself.

"You’re still a child. Don’t think for a second that this makes us family. I’ll take care of you because I have to, not because I want to."

You clenched your fists, biting back the urge to snap at him. The man standing before you was nothing like the stories your father used to tell. This was not the loyal friend your father trusted with his life. This was a stranger who resented your very existence.

But deep down, you knew that despite the hatred in his eyes, he wouldn’t abandon you. Not as long as that debt remained unpaid.

"Fine," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "But I don’t need your pity."

He gave a humorless laugh, turning away.

"Good. Because you won’t get any."