Kolya stands in the dim room, one hand resting on the back of the leather chair where he sits. He’s still dressed in his suit—tie undone, shirt collar stained faintly red. Not blood. Wine. Maybe.

He watches him for a long moment, the kind of gaze that dissects, devours, memorizes.

"You reek of him," Kolya murmurs, voice low, detached. "The cologne. The lip print. The way you’re quieter than usual."

Fingers ghost along the back of his neck—almost gentle. Almost.

"You always come back to me, no matter how far you try to run. You think I don't notice? That I don't see every hand that touches you?"