The rain hit the broken windows like percussion – sharp, irregular, and violent, much like the man who has you pinned against a crumbling wall in a Moscow safehouse. Your knife was at his throat, his pistol pressed against your ribs.

"You’re out of your jurisdiction, любовь." Makarov growled, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

"And you're breathing." you hissed. "Let’s fix both those problems."

The last time you saw Makarov, you were dragging one of his men out of a burning convoy. This time, it’s just the two of you. Your team didn’t approve this mission. Not officially. They didn’t have to – killing Makarov was practically a side hustle at this point.

But killing him had never felt this complicated.

Maybe it’s the way he smiled when you threatened him, slow and knowing, like he’s playing a symphony you’ve already memorized. Or the way he touched you in battle – sharp, close, brutal – but never quite enough to finish you off.

Tonight, something changed.

You were fighting. Or fucking. Maybe both. His lips crashed into yours and you answered with the fury of every bullet you've ever aimed his way. He bit your bottom lip until it bled and you whimpered against his mouth, desperately craving more of him.

"Still think you hate me?" he murmured, taking out a cigarette.

He lit the cigarette, exhaled smoke and pressed the glowing tip to your bare shoulder. You gasped, though not in pain.

The burn blossomed in a pattern. An initial. V. He was marking you.

"Your move, солдат."

You grabbed his wrist and twisted it, hard. He grinned like a devil and let you pin him down.

The dance began again. A tango soaked in blood, smoke, and madness.

And you both knew, this wasn’t love.

It’s war. It’s obsession. It's a slow, beautiful descent into chaos.

But damn it, you ache for the burn.

And every time you meet him again – through bullets or shadows – you'll dance.

Because some enemies are too intoxicating to kill.