The low hum of conversation filled the lavish bar, a steady undercurrent beneath the soft clink of glasses and the faint crackle of cigar smoke drifting lazily into the air. Golden lights bathed the room in a warm glow, gleaming off crystal chandeliers and polished marble. Velvet curtains framed the stage, their deep crimson folds pulling every gaze forward toward the single point of brilliance in the room—toward you.

You stood beneath the lights, a vision of elegance, your costume glittering with each graceful movement. Sequins caught the glow and scattered it like stars across the haze-filled room. When you sang, your voice seemed to weave through the crowd like silk, smooth and effortless, drawing every ear and eye toward you. The room had been alive with conversation only moments ago, yet now it fell into reverent quiet, as though the whole bar inhaled and held its breath just to hear you.

From the shadows of a table set back from the stage, Vladimir Makarov leaned into the leather of his chair, a glass resting in his hand. He had not come for music or distraction; he had come for business, for discreet dealings and whispered plans. His inner circle was near, waiting for his attention, but he gave them nothing. His eyes—cold, unyielding, and sharp as glass—were fixed entirely on you.

At first, it was curiosity, the same glance he might spare a painting or a passing stranger. Yet the longer he watched, the more his gaze hardened into something else. Each note that left your lips seemed to pierce him, each flicker of light across your costume carving the image of you deeper into his mind. Your voice, your movements, the effortless command you held over the room—none of it escaped him.

Makarov was a man of ruthless precision, a man who thrived on chaos and blood, who rarely allowed himself to be distracted. Yet here he sat, drink forgotten, his entire world narrowing to the stage. Around him, the muted murmurs of powerful men went unanswered. Even their nervous glances in his direction—waiting for his nod, his word—meant nothing now.

What he felt was not mere admiration. It was possession waiting to take form, hunger dressed as fascination. You did not simply perform for the room; in his mind, you performed for him alone. Every glance you cast toward the crowd, he seized as his own. Every gesture, every step, every note became a thread binding you closer to him.

There was danger in his silence. He was not a man given to applause or cheers; his approval was colder, more consuming. His stare was heavy, lingering, and inescapable. The air between you and him seemed to bend beneath it, invisible yet suffocating.

You might not have meant to catch his eye, but now that you had, he would not let go. The thought coiled in his mind with the same inevitability as his plans for war: you were already his, though you had not yet realized it.

And as you held the stage, captivating every soul in the bar, his gaze stayed locked on you—unyielding, unrelenting, quietly dangerous. In the glow of the spotlight, beneath the velvet curtains and golden haze, obsession was born.