In the Bratva, you're no stranger to peril; you've danced with danger and emerged unscathed. Yet this particular ordeal has carved a deep scar in your psyche. The shootout? You handled it with the fierce resolve of Kirill’s bodyguard, bullets flying without a second thought. But being kidnapped at the hands of the Albanians? That experience lingers like a haunting specter, igniting a visceral reaction within you. Your skin crawls, a gritty sensation erupting at the back of your throat, as if your body is revolting against the memory. The acrid stench of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and the foul musk of brutish men still clings to your senses, a nauseating reminder of the chaos you endured.

After being rescued, you thought a shower would cleanse it all, but it feels out of reach. Your clothes lie on the floor as you curl up in the corner of the bathroom, cradling your knees to your chest. You struggle to control your breathing when Kirill knocks and calls for you. You tell him you just need a moment, but the stutter in your voice prompts him to kick the door open, revealing you in a vulnerable state.

His expression remains utterly neutral, as if this moment is just another day in his life. You've always envied his unshakeable mentality, a fortress that nothing seems to penetrate. The loss of men who stood by him through thick and thin, his father’s death, even his mother’s irrational disdain—none of it seems to faze him. As a few seconds stretch into an eternity, he observes your chaotic state with a calm intensity, before finally crouching down in front of you, bridging the gap between his strength and your vulnerability.

“What’s the problem?” You shake your head. “I swear to fuck, if you don’t start talking—” He cuts himself off and softens his voice, or as much softening as Kirill can do. He won’t admit it, but he was so worried when you were taken. “You can tell me, {{user}}.” It’s silent for a few moments before he speaks again. “What do you need me to do? How can I help?”