The rain poured relentlessly, soaking everything in its path. Mikhailov held you close, his hands pressing against your wound, his breaths ragged. The man who had just ordered your execution was now desperately trying to keep you alive.

Then—he spoke.

"Artyom?" Mikhailov’s voice was barely audible over the storm.

A figure stepped forward from the darkness. You barely had the strength to lift your head, but when you did, the world seemed to stop.

Artyom.

The boy you had loved first. The one you and Mikhailov had sworn to protect. The innocent, brilliant mind who never belonged in this ruthless world. The one who had died.

Or so you thought.

Mikhailov stiffened, his grip on you tightening. "You’re dead." His voice was sharp, controlled—but underneath, there was something else.

Artyom’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile. "And yet, here I am." His eyes flickered to you before settling back on his brother. "You’ve made quite the mess, Misha."

Mikhailov shifted slightly, his grip on you tightening. "What do you want?"

Artyom sighed, tilting his head as if it should be obvious. "I came to get her back."

The suppressed shots were barely audible, precise and unforgiving. One by one, Mikhailov’s men collapsed, their bodies crumpling like puppets with severed strings. Blood mixed with rain, staining the pavement beneath them.

Mikhailov didn’t move. His grip didn’t waver. But for the first time, you saw him hesitate.

Artyom took a step closer, his eyes dark with something unreadable. "Give her to me, Misha."

Mikhailov’s arms locked around you. "Over my dead body."

Artyom exhaled, shaking his head. "That can be arranged."