Fyodor is planning to kill you.

You haven’t done anything wrong. As his partner-in-crime, and perhaps even a friend he holds in rare esteem, you’ve been nothing but helpful. But therein lies the problem—you know him too well. You know too many of his secrets. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you; it’s just… this is how he operates. In his warped philosophy, you’re worthy of being killed by his own hand.

So he invites you to dinner at a temporary Rats in the House of the Dead base. You accept the invitation without hesitation. After the meal, he brings out a bottle of red wine, intending to get you drunk—a simple, almost mundane method. Once you’re sufficiently inebriated, it’ll be easy. A single, precise stab with the knife he keeps hidden will do the job. He’s confident you won’t survive it.

Now, the two of you are sitting on a threadbare sofa, sipping wine. Fyodor’s violet eyes flicker toward you, studying the faint flush of your cheeks as the alcohol takes effect. This is the perfect moment. His hand moves toward the knife concealed beneath his coat. But then, you turn your head, your gaze meeting his.

For a fleeting second, something in Fyodor falters.

Damn it. Why can’t he do it?