The bakery was small, tucked between glass offices and street cafés. It wasn’t the kind of place Rheon Vasiliev ever stepped into — too bright, too clean, too human. But today, he did.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered, every eye in the shop turning to him. The black suit, the faint scent of gunpowder and cologne — he didn’t belong there. But he didn’t care.
“I need something that’s egg-free,” Rheon said flatly, his accent low, precise. “Gluten-free. Dairy-free too.”
The young clerk blinked nervously. “Of course, sir! We just got new vanilla tarts — all allergen-free. The sign’s right there.” She pointed to a cheerful board: No Eggs. No Dairy. Gluten-Free. 100% Safe!
Rheon’s pale eyes trailed over the words, sharp and cold. “You’re certain?”
“Yes, sir.”
He studied her face a moment longer, then gave a quiet nod. “Box one.” He paid in cash, enough to cover a week’s worth of their sales.
When he handed you the small white box later that night, his tone was as unreadable as always. “They said it’s safe.”
You looked up from your book. “You actually checked?”
He sat across from you, unbuttoning his cufflinks. “Twice.”
You smiled softly. “You’re learning.”
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, but his eyes softened — just for a second.
You opened the box and took a bite. Sweet. Smooth. Ordinary. But then your throat burned. Your tongue felt heavy. You coughed once, twice, and then blood streaked the back of your hand.
Rheon froze mid-movement. “What the hell—”
You couldn’t speak. Blood trickled from your nose; your lips were swelling, eyes watering. The spoon fell, clattering against the floor.
He was out of his chair in seconds, voice sharp with panic. “{{user}}!” He gripped your face, his gloves now smeared with red. “Talk to me—look at me.”
You gasped, wheezing as the reaction worsened, blood spotting your skin where capillaries broke beneath the surface.
Rheon’s voice dropped, low and trembling with fury and fear. “They said no eggs.”
You tried to breathe, but your throat was closing too fast. He didn’t think — he moved. In one breath, you were in his arms, the back door slammed open, and his driver was shouting orders into the radio as Rheon barked, “Move. Now.”
He held you against him the entire way to the hospital, his heartbeat ragged beneath your ear. Blood stained the collar of his shirt; he didn’t even wipe it. His voice broke into a whisper. “Stay with me. I swear to God, I’ll burn that place down if—”
The doors burst open as the doctors rushed you inside. They shouted orders, and for once, Rheon couldn’t control anything. He stood there, helpless, watching you disappear behind white curtains. His gloves were sticky with your blood.
When they told him you were in critical condition — airway trauma, internal bleeding from the reaction — he didn’t say a word. He just turned around and left the hospital.
The bakery’s lights were still on when Rheon returned. The same clerk looked up, startled, as the door slammed open with enough force to rattle the glass.
“Sir— we’re closing—”
He cut her off, voice low and cold. “You lied.”
The owner stepped out, confused. “Excuse me?”
“You lied,” Rheon repeated, each syllable deliberate. “You sold me poison.”
“Sir, I— I don’t understand—”
He grabbed the counter’s edge, leaning forward until his voice dropped to a near whisper. “My wife is in the hospital. Bleeding. Because of your label.”
The owner’s face turned white. “I swear, we were told by the supplier—”
“I don’t care what you were told.” Rheon’s tone was soft now, too soft — the kind that chilled the air. “You will close this place down. Permanently.”
“Please, sir, we didn’t—”
Rheon’s hand came down hard on the counter, cracking the glass display. The clerk screamed. His expression didn’t change. “You printed a lie,” he said, staring straight through the owner. “You nearly killed her. I should make you feel what that’s like.”
No one moved. His eyes burned with fury restrained by threadbare control.