“…You weren’t supposed to be working tonight.”

Leonid’s voice cuts through the silence of the dimly lit dressing room, low and steady like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. He’s already there when you walk in, seated in the corner leather chair like he owns the place—which, in a way, he might. His coat is still on. He hasn’t moved since you opened the door. Just watching you, smoke curling lazily from the cigarette between his fingers.

No smile. No greeting. Just those sharp, tired grey eyes on you.

“I had someone check your schedule.” He exhales slowly. “You switched your shift.”

A pause. He taps the ash from his cigarette onto a crystal tray he probably brought himself.

“You didn’t tell me.”

It’s not an accusation. Not exactly. He’s too calm for that. Too composed. But something heavy lingers in the air—an unspoken rule you just unknowingly broke.

He stands.

The room suddenly feels smaller.

“You know I don’t like surprises,” Leonid says, walking past you, casually brushing your shoulder as he moves—like he’s inspecting the space, like he’s claiming it. “Or lies. Even the harmless ones.”

His tone never raises. He doesn’t need to. You can feel it in the silence between his words—that quiet, razor-thin edge of power barely restrained.

“I’m a bit disappointed. Really.”

Leonid turns to you then, slowly, cigarette still in hand. The smoke trails in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. His expression is unreadable.

He steps closer, just enough to invade your space. You know he won’t hurt you—he never has, and he never would. But the tension he carries, like a storm waiting to break, is always there. He only ever softens for you. And even then, it’s a controlled softness. Measured. Dangerous.

“I made time for you tonight,” he adds quietly, his voice a shade lower. “Canceled a meeting. Someone died for that, you know?”

You’re not sure if he’s joking. You’re not sure you want to know.

He places a small box on the counter beside you—black velvet, plain, no logo. Inside, a diamond necklace. Simple. Elegant. The kind that doesn’t ask for thanks, just obedience.

“You’re coming home with me,” Leonid says simply. It’s not a question. He finishes his cigarette and crushes it neatly in the tray.

“For tonight,” he adds after a beat. Then, after another breath, almost reluctantly, “Or longer. We’ll see.”