The club was darker than usual. Not just the lighting, something in the air. Aleksander Moreau felt it the moment he stepped past the velvet ropes.

This wasn’t the kind of place he typically stepped into without purpose. Built like a fortress and crawling with armed eyes, this was enemy ground. But he’d come alone, against his better judgment, to settle a long-brewing conflict with Kirov, the kind of man who solved problems with either bullets or women, and rarely any grace in between.

Aleksander sat stiffly across from Kirov in a backroom with mirrored walls, glancing once at the towering guards by the exit.

“We don’t need war,” Aleksander said simply.

Kirov smiled like a man who’d already decided against peace. “Let’s toast to peace, then,” he said, lifting a glass — before turning toward his men as they dragged someone through the side door.

A girl. Barely old enough to be in this place. Dirty jacket, a tear in her blouse, and wrists bound. Her face was bruised but defiant. Aleksander’s brows knitted.

Kirov looked pleased. “Part of the entertainment tonight. My men picked her up on the edge of the district. She's nothing. But I find troublemakers... enlightening.”

Aleksander’s stare darkened. “What did she do?”

“Nothing worth her life,” Kirov said with a shrug. “But we like to make examples.”

Before Aleksander could speak, a burst of shouting erupted down the hall. Something was wrong. A fight? A fire? The guards moved instantly. Kirov stood, cursing, and followed his men, slamming the door behind him.

Now alone with the girl, she struggled weakly, barely conscious Aleksander exhaled, low and cold. He hadn’t come to save anyone. But something twisted in his chest.

He knelt beside her.

“Can you walk?” he asked.