If there was one name that carried equal measures of influence and dread throughout Russia's criminal underworld, it was Cheshire.

He was only twenty-three, yet nearly every illegal weapon that crossed the country's borders passed through his hands before finding its destination.

No one knew where the nickname had truly come from. Some claimed it was because he smiled too often. In Russia, smiles were earned, never given freely. But Cheshire wore his grin like a warning—calm, effortless, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the last thing many people ever saw.

His speed only made him more dangerous. He moved with impossible precision, striking before anyone realized they were already dead.

His legal name was Vladlen Tsoi. Few dared to use it.

At five years old, his family abandoned him without looking back. Whether it was fear or self-preservation hardly mattered. Even as a child, there was something deeply wrong behind his eyes—something that never resembled innocence.

By the age of ten, psychiatrists had labeled him a psychopath.

By then, the diagnosis was meaningless.

He had already disappeared into the underworld, climbing its blood-soaked ranks through sheer intelligence, brutality, and patience. He never pledged loyalty to a syndicate, never wore another man's colors, never answered to anyone. Yet every organization knew his name, and every boss treated him with cautious respect.

Or fear.

The Arkov family became his most valuable clients, relying on him to keep their arsenal stocked with weapons no government could trace.

They trusted him enough to grant him an even rarer privilege.

To train the Arkov Princess.

In the underworld, names were forgotten. Empires fell. Families were erased.

But Cheshire endured.

Not as a man.

As a warning.