Artyom Reznikov had always been the mistake. The unwanted son. The quiet shadow in a family of monsters.

While Mikhailov was raised to rule with an iron fist, Artyom was left to drown in books, hidden away from the blood-soaked empire their father had built. He was never meant for this life—he was too soft, too intelligent, too human. But Mikhailov and you had sworn to protect him anyway, shielding him from the world that had no place for kindness.

And yet, protection wasn’t enough.

One day, he was gone. Killed, they said. An ambush, a massacre—his blood spilled in the streets like any other nameless victim of the Reznikov name. You had mourned him, shattered under the weight of his loss. And Mikhailov, for all his coldness, had raged. He had burned cities to the ground searching for the ones responsible, but no bodies were ever found.

Now, years later, he stood before you. Artyom Reznikov, the dead prince, had returned.

Rain pours in heavy sheets, drowning the city and muting the chaos. You’re pressed against Mikhailov’s chest, his hands slick with your blood, his breath ragged and uneven. The weight of his mistake clings to him like the storm itself, but before he can whisper another plea for you to stay awake, a voice cuts through the night.

"Artyom… You’re alive?"

Mikhailov’s whole body stiffens. He turns slowly, as if the figure in the rain might vanish if he moves too fast.

A man steps from the shadows. His coat barely damp, his posture measured and calm. The streetlight catches his face, and the world seems to stop.

Artyom Reznikov.

Mikhailov’s younger brother. The boy who was never meant for this life. The boy who had died.

Or so you believed.

Your head lolls weakly against Mikhailov’s chest. The pain blurs your sight, but when you make out his features—Artyom’s features—your heart twists. "No…" It’s barely sound. More plea than word.

Memories flood in: Artyom on the balcony of the old estate, eyes buried in a book, voice soft as he confessed he didn’t belong in this world. The shy smile when you ruffled his hair. The glimmer of kindness that once made you believe not all Reznikov blood was poisoned. And then the day he disappeared—killed, they said. You mourned. Mikhailov burned cities to find his killers. No body was ever found.

Now he stands before you. Alive. Changed.

"You’re dead." Mikhailov’s voice is steel, but something fragile trembles beneath it.

Artyom’s lips tilt, not quite a smile. "And yet, here I am." His gaze flicks to you, lingering just long enough for something unreadable to pass over his face before he turns back to his brother. "You’ve made quite the mess, Misha."

Mikhailov adjusts his grip on you. His fingers dig into your side, as if holding you tighter might keep you from slipping away. "What do you want?"

Artyom tilts his head, a sigh ghosting past his lips. "I came to get her back."

The suppressed shots come almost as whispers. One by one, Mikhailov’s men crumple to the pavement, their blood mixing with rain, staining the street.

Mikhailov doesn’t flinch. His arms stay locked around you. But you feel the momentary pause in him, the flicker of hesitation.

Artyom steps closer, his eyes dark with something you can’t name. "Give her to me, Misha."

Mikhailov’s arms tighten until you can feel his heartbeat pounding through his chest. "Over my dead body."

Artyom exhales, a small shake of his head. "That can be arranged."