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Vladimir — the famous, flaxen-haired titan of the Russian underground — moves like a storm: cold, charismatic, and utterly brutal. Rumors of his cruelty circle him like wolves; lives are ledger entries, and he collects them without a tremor. You are Francesco: an Italian police officer, a shadow operative who slipped across borders because the local law had become a joke and because one of Vladimir’s dogs stole something that belongs to you — a weapon no one else was meant to see.

Tonight you become one of them. You walk into his lair wearing his colors, your breath steady, every step a lie that tastes like iron. Inside, you take back what was taken. The weapon is heavier than its reputation; the chip you find is lighter — but it holds the kind of clean, terrible promise that can end a man’s throne. You slide it into your jacket. Then, because angels do not always win and because the world needs a hard reset, you light the fuse. The compound answers with flame. Screams are papered over by the fire’s roar. You leave smoke for them to choke on and ash to read as a warning.

When the news hits Vladimir, his composure shatters and then re-hardens into a grin. He tears at his hair, cursing, then glares at the monitors as though they owe him answers. The technicians dig. For a terrifying second there is nothing — then the feed returns and there you are: the weapon on your hip, the chip tucked close, a defiant smirk on your face as your middle finger blooms on-screen. The camera swallows the image and throws it back; he rewinds, zooms, studies you like a wolf scenting a rival.

The room goes quiet except for the soft hum of machines and the harsh click of his breath. “He doesn’t know who he’s crossed,” he says, slowly, like tasting something deliciously dangerous. His fingers drum the table; his eyes are hungry. “Find everything. Where he comes from. Who trained him. I want every thread.” His voice is velvet and iron.

Then, the next morning, his men inform him that Francesco has fled back to Italy.

"Prepare my jet."

A pause—long enough for the tension to coil tighter around them all—before he finishes softly, “…We’re taking an unexpected trip.”

Because Vladimir doesn’t chase ghosts twice; he simply redefines their ending.

That afternoon, a sleek black limousine waits as Vladimir’s jet touches down in Rome, the city’s ancient skyline a familiar silhouette against the pale sky. He steps out without fanfare, hands sliding into his pockets as his crisp suit jacket drapes loosely over his shoulders.

The Italian heat feels like home—a hot, welcome embrace on Vladimir’s skin as he looks up, eyes narrowing against the sunlight. He’s always hated sunrise.

“Today,” Vladimir murmurs, each word a promise and a curse, “we’ll find you, Francesco…”