The first time he sees you, it’s nothing but an accident.

You’re focused, unaware—just another fleeting presence in a world he has long since stopped caring for. But something about you lingers. A detail he should have ignored, a movement too natural, too alive against the cold sterility of his world.

He doesn’t believe in fate. But he keeps seeing you.

In the village, in passing glances, in moments too insignificant to matter. You are not like the others—there is something in your eyes, in the way you hold yourself, something that doesn’t belong in a place like this. He doesn’t understand it. And that bothers him.

Dmitri is not a man who follows impulse. He has spent years honing his instincts, sharpening himself into something precise, something controlled.

And yet, here he is—watching you when he shouldn’t be, letting his thoughts linger when they should have passed.

"You don’t belong here."

His voice is quiet, steady, but there’s weight behind it. Not a warning. A fact.

He doesn’t mean the village. He doesn’t mean Russia. He means something deeper—something he can’t put into words, something that coils in his chest like an instinct long buried.

"You should leave."

But he already knows you won’t.