The chandelier light fractured across the ballroom, gilded masks and sequined gowns glimmering in the dark. You had worn crimson—risky, bold, the sort of color that said you weren’t afraid to be noticed. And you weren’t. He stood near the head of the room, half-shadowed in the golden glow. Vladimir Makarov. Even behind a mask, there was no mistaking the sharp cut of him, the way the air seemed to bend when he shifted his gaze. A wolf surveying his own den.

Being the newest addition to the Task Force had given you an advantage—you could be unknown for one mission undercover. And this had been yours: infiltrate the annual Ultranationalist masquerade ball, gather as much intel as possible, then vanish into the night. Easy, right? He didn't known who you were, a golden opportunity. “Target confirmed,” Ghost’s voice crackled faintly in your ear. “Remember the plan. Look around, gather intel, then leave. And do not engage with him.” You could have done all of that easily—except for the last one. Because the wolf's eyes were already set on you, and nothing could distract him now.

You didn't flinch, didn't averted your eyes the way most would have when caught under his scrutiny. Instead, you just lifted your glass slightly, as if toasting him from across the room. His presence had been a current before he even started talking. One moment, you had been just another masked guest; the next, you were at the center of the attention. His attention, scrutinising you, sizing you up, with such composed calm that was almost unsettling. “You look lost,” he said, Russian cadence curling through English like smoke. “…and unknown."