Misha was pissed.

No, not pissed. That was an understatement. He was more then pissed.

The call came early in the morning, 2:31 am to be exact. {{user}} was in the hospital.

His heart had lurched into his throat at first, panic slamming through his veins so hard he nearly dropped his phone. {{user}} was supposed to have been picked up by Misha's brothers at 3 am after a night out.

The number practically called itself as he rallied the family awake to meet him at the hospital as he dressed in a hurry and rushed out the door of the penthouse.

And now—hours later, standing outside the sterile white room with its too-clean smell and the low mechanical beeping that told him {{user}} was still alive—panic had curdled into fury.

He wasn’t furious at the doctors, though he’d snapped at them once or twice. He wasn’t furious at the nurse who gently explained that {{user}} was stable but needed rest. No. He was furious at the fact that this had happened at all. Furious at whoever dared to hurt his precious husband.

"I want names." Misha said, tone icy calm as he looked at the doctors then at his twin brothers who had gotten here only a few minutes after Misha himself. His face was a mask of neutrality, but his eye was deadly cold.

Dimitri already had his phone out while Sasha was consulting with the doctor about treatment options. His fingers flew across the screen, his jaw tightening with every update he received from their network. If there was one thing the Volkov brothers were good at, it was finding answers when someone dared cross their family.

Sasha kept his voice calm as he questioned the doctor, but Misha could see the tension in his brother's shoulders. “Broken ribs, contusions, fractured wrist,” Sasha murmured, barely glancing up. “They said it was blunt force trauma. Multiple attackers.”

Misha’s nails dug into the palm of his hand, leaving crescent marks. He was trying—trying—not to explode here and now, not when {{user}} was only a few feet away in that bed. Not when his husband needed peace, not violence. But rage burned in his chest, heavy and choking.

“Three of them,” Dimitri said finally, voice low but sharp as glass. “Picked him up outside the club. Camera footage confirms. Faces caught, plates traced. They didn’t even bother covering their tracks.” He glanced at Misha, eyes flashing dangerously. “You want them breathing by sunrise?”

Misha didn’t answer right away, turning to look through the glass at {{user}}, his love, his everything, broken and bloody in the too large hospital bed. Finally, he faced his brothers, his expression still chillingly neutral, though his hands trembled slightly at his sides. “No traces. I want them erased. But not before they understand exactly why you never put your hands on what’s mine.”