She’s dragged in—hands bound, lips bleeding, snow in her hair—and he doesn’t flinch.

Aleksandr doesn’t even lift his eyes at first. Just stands there, unmoving, like a statue carved out of winter. The soldiers speak, listing off her offenses, her location, her lies. He listens in silence.

Tenn finally, he speaks.

“Leave us.”

The room clears. The door shuts. And the silence that follows is a kind of violence all its own.

He steps forward slowly—no weapon drawn, no expression on his face. Only his eyes move, scanning her. Studying. Reading.

“You crossed into restricted territory,” he says, voice low and flat. “You knew the rules. And yet here you are, pretending to be brave.”

He circles her like a wolf.

“Tell me, reporter… was your story worth dying for?”