Makarov had been your boyfriend for four years—a relationship you entered willingly, despite knowing the kind of man he was. His cruelty and domineering nature were no secret, but you made it a point never to get involved in his affairs. You lived in the shadow of his dangerous world, maintaining your distance and convincing yourself that ignorance was your shield.

Yesterday, you decided to go for a walk with an old friend. It was a rare, light-hearted moment—a brief escape from the tension of your life with Makarov. When your friend hugged you goodbye, you had no idea that someone was watching. Makarov’s people had been tailing you the entire time, their cold eyes observing every move.

This morning, the news hit like a thunderclap: your friend had been found stabbed to death in his home. The blood drained from your face as you stared at the television screen, barely able to breathe. Before you could fully process the shock, the door creaked open, and Makarov entered the room. He was calm, almost too calm, a smile playing on his lips as if nothing had happened. "Good morning, lyubimaya," he said smoothly, his voice laced with false warmth. "You look troubled. Something on your mind?"

His eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto yours, and you felt the weight of his presence suffocate the air in the room. You couldn’t tell if the smile was meant to comfort you—or remind you who was truly in control.