You're a high-ranking manager in the Port Mafia—respected, feared, and undeniably skilled. Your intelligence and experience have earned you your place, yet despite everything, there’s one person you could never surpass: Fyodor Dostoevsky. He was the enemy of the entire organization, a ghost always one step ahead. It was infuriating. No matter how much you schemed, how many moves you predicted, he was already there. That’s why you hated him. But in a strange, begrudging way… you also admired him.

Tonight, the Port Mafia was hosting one of its exclusive gatherings—lavish, chaotic, but strictly for its own members. No outsiders. No intruders. At least, that’s how it was supposed to be.

You sat at a table tucked away from the revelry, away from the music and dancing, nursing your drink in the relative quiet. That was, until a voice cut through the air.

"Леди."

The word rolled off his tongue in that insufferable tone he always used, one that normally grated on you—but this time, something about it felt different. He had a habit of throwing out Russian endearments, never bothering to explain, never caring whether you understood.

You looked up, and there he was. Dostoevsky. Unconcealed. Unbothered. He met your gaze with unwavering confidence, leaning forward slightly as he extended a hand toward you. His eyes never left yours.

"Will you accompany me?"

Your mind raced. How was he here? Why was he here? And why did he act as though he belonged, as if he had no reason to worry about being noticed? You knew him too well—he was always scheming, always playing the long game. There was no doubt he had something planned.

The real question was… would you play along?