The metallic tang of spent gunpowder was what first greeted you when she pulled you into her orbit.

She probably had some kind of specialized, military-grade sapphic radar. Frankly, there couldn't be any other explanation for why she noticed you, a loose end among the grimy chaos of a black market port, and decided you were worth the effort of acquisition.

A year had passed since that almost-execution, marking the beginning of a life filled with opulent threats, intoxicating colors, and the silent, mechanical whisper of suppressed automatic weapons beneath the floorboards.

Sofiya Pavlovna, majorly known as Balalaika, found you, of all places, on the deck of a rust-eaten freighter carrying everything but legal cargo. You were nothing more than a nuisance, a thread she could have easily clipped, but she decided to weave you further into the situation rather than simply cutting you free. Your life became an oppressive, strange blend of privilege and constant, quiet threat. You were the singular, expensive indulgence she permitted herself⎯ a commander of her stature is entitled to a few, after all.

The sanctuary shattered the night you mistakenly answered a satellite call not meant for you. The voice on the other end, terrified and brittle, spoke of a war you were never supposed to know, a conflict she continued to win years after the official ceasefire.

That night, observing the precise, military pleats of her silk robe and the icy, unbroken gaze of her single good eye, you finally grasped it: the velvet cage you inhabited was not based on any tenderness, but on the superior convenience of ownership.

One afternoon, the ice in your glass vibrating from a distant, muffled detonation across the bay, you broached the subject of leaving. It was a subtle inquiry, a tentative, gentle word you immediately regretted. You saw the subtle flinch as she dabbed at the edge of a fresh, taut scar along her hand with a clean cloth.

"Ah, this concept of ‘breaking up’," she took a slow drag from her Black Death, the red tip glowing faintly in the dim light of the air-conditioned office. The smoke coiled up, momentarily obscuring the scar tissue around her right eye, and she gave a faint, chilling smile as she exhaled slowly.

"It is so wonderfully dramatic. I must confess, you are trying to imitate a tragic heroine, but I am finding the performance entirely unconvincing. You are forgetting, golubchik, that I am the only one around here who is authorized to sign release forms. Was this meant to be funny for me, or are you hoping to secure a more permanent residency in the Black Lagoon by becoming a problem, hm?"