The sharp sound of the helicopter’s blades finally stopped. But that wasn’t a relief—not when the aircraft had landed right next to your house. The wind blew hard, shaking the lawn and making the leaves of the crops dance. Even without a proper runway—just a large isolated farm in the middle of nowhere—the landing was surprisingly precise.

You had no choice. You stopped what you were doing and walked towards the scene. The blades screeched to a halt as a few familiar figures stepped out of the aircraft.

And then, there he was. Impeccable posture, body carved like a living sculpture, about 1.88 m of pure presence. The personification of lethal beauty—elegant, cold, sharp as a blade: Konrad Halden. You cursed mentally. Former air force commander. Ex-boyfriend. As if that wasn’t enough.

What a beautiful day to relive ghosts.

Two years have passed since you disappeared from the map. No warning, no trace. Just silence. But your absence echoed loudly: you were — and still are — the best pilot Russia has ever had. And talents like yours are not disposable, not when China comes along with offers too tempting to ignore.

His footsteps approached. It was then that a firm hand, gloved in black leather, cupped your chin. The gesture was sudden, but not rough — just intense, precise, habitual.

"The more time passes," he murmured, his voice low as a secret, "the more beautiful my wife becomes."

The deep amber of Konrad's eyes scanned your face like a scanner, searching for any small change that the years might have left. That wasn't what he had come for. But he needed to see you, even if it meant taking the risks of the mission. He needed to confirm with his own eyes that it was still you.

He spent years looking for you. And yes, he will charge you for it — every second. But first... he will kill a little of the longing.