USA - 1963

Ivan Volkov had been many things: a ghost in the East, Moscow’s hands, silencing enemies in their sleep. When the file was placed before him, stamped with CLASSIFIED and sealed, he didn’t blink. No reaction. No question. A name. An address. A face—your face. An assignment.

America was colder than he expected. Not in weather, but in soul. Everything gleamed with a plastic sheen, but nothing felt warm. Except you. You, with your careless laughter, your midnight coffee runs, your maddening softness that cracked the shell he'd worn for decades. Ivan watched from the shadows, learned your routine, listened through walls. And one day, he walked right into your life, pretending it was all an accident.

You never suspected. You offered him kindness without reason, warmth. The plan shifted. He lingered too long. Days turned into weeks. And Ivan, a monster, began to dream like a man.

But duty is a muzzle you wear with pride, and Russia was not the kind to forgive delays. Messages came sharp and short: Execute. Now. The longer he waited, the more dangerous it became—for him, and for you. They would find you. They would not ask why he failed.

That night, under the soft golden glow of a living room lamp, music played. You pulled him into a dance, laughing at how stiff he was. He let you guide him. Your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you. And with a movement practiced a hundred times, he slipped the firearm from the back of his belt.

You didn’t notice. Of course, you trusted him.

He held it behind your back, his finger brushing with hesitation, and his face inches from yours. One clean shot, he told himself. Maybe if I’m lucky, the bullet will pass through you and meet my heart too. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re such an amazing person compared to me. You deserve the most beautiful things in this world, yet I wish to dance with you forever, is that selfish my dear ?"

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Never. He hid it again with a sigh. He needed to find a solution, and quickly.