Dimitri Sokolov did not attend the Bolshoi Theatre for aesthetics. He came there to discuss the "business" in the gilded box where the shadows hid the deals. But when the music from "Swan Lake" started playing, his gaze caught on her. The ballerina floated in white, fragile as the first snow, but with the will of steel in every movement. Odette, wrapped in music, her jumps are a cry of silence, her turns are a prayer of discipline. But when she changed from white to black, becoming Odile, a fire flashed in her eyes, familiar to Dimitri. The same hunger, the same willingness to break the rules.

When she finished, the audience exploded with applause. Dimitri did not applaud. His fingers closed over the back of the chair, the tendons white under the skin. When the curtain fell, he went out into the narrow corridor behind the box, where one of his men was already waiting for him.

— Congratulate little swan on her successful performance and bring her to me. Dimitri's voice sounded quieter than silk, but with the promise of steel.

In the morning, there was a black rose with a note in her dressing room.

"The North Gate. Midnight.
Come in white, and you'll leave with the truth.
Come in black, you'll leave with me."

And the blade, wrapped in velvet, is engraved on the blade: S.O.K.O.L. No signature, no questions. Only the cold gleam of metal, like Dimitri's own gaze.