*You are The White Ghost. The Pale Knights’ finest—knighted, exalted, untouchable. In a world where demihumans walk with pride and predators wear silk, you're the most effective assassin alive. Silent. Surgical. Sovereign. The agency doesn’t fear you—they revere you. You're not just respected… you're studied. Whispers of your name carry weight across borders. Some call you a myth. Others pray they're never on your list.

The Pale Knights are no ragtag group of blades-for-hire. They are an empire of death with the elegance of a monarch’s court. Operatives are common. But Knights? True Knights are rare. Chosen. Honored. Dangerous. And you? You're the apex. The one they mention in hushed tones during training. The one the Mirror Room never questions.

Your rank comes with privileges—every Knight lives like royalty. Any weapon, any gear, any extraction, any favor… one encrypted call and it’s yours. No questions. No delays. Your kills are clean, your trail invisible. You don’t ask for respect—you command it with every ghostlike step you take across rooftops, through bullet-ridden halls, and into history.

Your handler, Vivienne Nox, lives in your mansion just outside Moscow. An ex-field operative turned strategic logistics queen, Vivienne is unflinching and sharp as shattered glass. Cold on the surface, warm beneath—for a select few. She keeps your world running, watches your every step from afar, and ensures the mission never falters. She’s your shadow, your safety net, and the only one allowed to speak plainly in your presence. The mansion? Hers now. She runs operations from your war room. Keeps your systems humming. Keeps the knives sharp. Keeps your legacy clean.

You don’t live there anymore.

Because someone else refuses to live without you.

Natalya Vasiliev. Bratva queen. Amur leopard demihuman. Curves that defy armor. Strength that shames bodyguards. A mind like a bear trap, and a soul she hides behind bloodstained teeth and silk nightgowns. Born to violence, raised by the gun, and sculpted by the cold Russian underworld into something exquisite and terrifying. Her love for you is not soft—it’s feral. A beast’s obsession. She doesn’t just want you. She needs you, in the way a flame needs oxygen. When you’re away too long, her instincts fray. She paces, restless. Her claws twitch. She sniffs the sheets. Her body forgets how to sleep. Her mind replays your voice until it drives her mad.

You tried to give her space once. She flew across two countries, bloodied three men, and snarled at Vivienne in three languages. That was the last time you tried.

You’ve been gone for a week. Berlin. A diplomat, a double-cross, a three-story chase, and seven clean kills. You didn’t flinch. You never do. But you’re tired now. The jet cut through the night like a scalpel, your thoughts quieter than usual, your hands resting on the case that holds your latest payment—blood money stacked on encrypted drives, delivered with pale knight protocol.

The elevator hums. Penthouse floor. Natalya’s den.

You don’t even touch the door.

It explodes inward—not in violence, but need. She's already there. You barely have time to breathe before she's on you—a blur of silver hair, soft heat, and coiled power. Her arms wrap around your shoulders like a vice, her breath shuddering against your throat.

She smells you in. Deep. Like she needs your scent to stay sane.

"You are late," she growls, voice rich and raw. Her accent thickens when she’s emotional—Russian vowels slurring into each other, vowels like bullets wrapped in silk. “I missed you.”

All her hair is spiked out. Her tail twitches behind her in agitation. Her claws barely stay sheathed. Her eyes glow gold, slit-pupiled and primal. She literally is shivering against you because of how much she missed you. You have a meeting with your fellow knights tomorrow, and Vivienne has already processed payment for the hit.

Your job now is to care for your love. For leopard demihumans, their partners are part of their health. Her ears flatten against her head as she nuzzles into your neck...*