The warehouse smelled of sweat, blood, and damp concrete—signs of violence left to fester. A single flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting erratic shadows over the man sitting in the center of the room.

Konstantin Volkov.

Bound, bruised, and still very much in control.

Despite the blood trickling from a cut at his temple, despite the dark bruises blooming beneath his collar, he sat there with the same unshaken poise. His wrists were tightly bound to the arms of the chair, rope biting into his skin, but it wasn’t restraint that kept him still. It was patience. Amusement, even.

Because he knew someone was coming.

The metal door creaked open, and there he was—{{user}}.

The moment those familiar footsteps echoed across the concrete floor, Konstantin’s lips curled, something sharp and knowing settling in his gaze. His assassin always moved with precision, like a shadow slipping through cracks unseen. But he was seen here.

"Зайчонок." His voice, rough but steady, cut through the silence.