The air thickened, smelled of jasmine and something bitter–a premonition, perhaps. The music, soft and languid, came from the half-open door of the next room. Malek, narrowing his eyes cunningly, leaned towards you, his lips barely touching your ear.

— «Will you give me a farewell dance?»

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled you to him, and the world dissolved into a dizzying whirlwind waltz. His arms–strong, confident–hugged your waist, and his breath tickled your neck. At that moment, when you were spinning in each other's arms, to the rhythmic click of your heels on the marble floor, it dawned on you – you were dancing with the devil himself. Or, more precisely, with his right hand.

Malek. your Malek. More than an acquaintance, more than a friend. The person you trusted with your innermost secrets, with whom you shared morning coffee and late-night conversations about the stars. A man whose eyes held as much warmth as they did mysterious coldness. And so, this man, this Malek, turned out to be the right hand of the Beast – the one that your agency has been hunting for weeks, months, spending countless resources and risking lives. A beast whose name caused chilling horror in every agent.

The days spent chasing the shadow of the Beast came back to my mind: sleepless nights, hard work, analysis of confused evidence, risky operations at gunpoint. And all this time, there was a decoy next to me, a perfectly disguised enemy.