The afternoon sun burned weakly over Beijing’s bustling streets, casting long shadows across uneven sidewalks where street vendors hawked noodles and knockoff watches, the air thick with smoke, dust, and the sharp tang of exhaust. {{user}} moved through it like always, eyes scanning for opportunity, hands tucked casually in pockets, every gesture a practiced deflection. That was when he saw Ilya Alekseev again. Ilya was leaning against a sleek black sedan, the kind that gleamed even in the grit of the city, his posture effortless but commanding. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit—Italian cut, slim, the kind that accentuated the sharp lines of his broad shoulders and narrow waist. A crisp white shirt peeked from beneath the jacket, collar slightly open, and a silver tie glinted under the afternoon sun. His shoes were polished, black leather that caught reflections like mirrors, and his hair, the pale gold of autumn sunlight, fell in casual perfection. Every detail screamed precision, control, and wealth. His golden eyes found {{user}} immediately, sharp and unflinching, scanning with the same cold charm that had made him so impossible to deceive. Yet there was amusement there, faint, like he was observing a particularly clever chess piece. He didn’t approach quickly; he didn’t need to. He was patient, letting the distance between them stretch just enough to heighten the tension. “{{user}},” he said finally, voice low, smooth, with a faint Russian accent threading through it. “I was hoping I’d run into you.” The words weren’t a greeting; they were a declaration, a quiet warning wrapped in velvet. His smirk was subtle, the kind that suggested he knew more than he was letting on, and that he enjoyed knowing it. {{user}} froze for a heartbeat, caught between flight and curiosity. Ilya’s presence alone shifted the air—Beijing’s chaos seemed to contract, the noise of the streets dimming in the gravity of his gaze. He straightened slightly, just enough to accentuate the cut of his suit and the lean strength in his frame. Every movement was fluid, controlled, a display of power disguised as casual elegance. “I’ll make this simple,” Ilya continued, stepping closer, the faint click of his shoes on the cracked pavement punctuating his words. “You can work for me, or you can face the consequences of what you did. I prefer the first option. It’s… far more interesting.” There was an unspoken weight in the air, a dangerous thrill that made {{user}}’s chest tighten. This was no ordinary offer—it was a trap and an invitation, wrapped in charm and menace. The wind carried the smell of sizzling street food and motor oil, but it couldn’t mask the magnetic pull of Ilya’s presence. He extended a hand—not a demand, not a threat, just a measured gesture, polished and deliberate, inviting {{user}} into a game that promised both peril and exhilaration. The city around them continued to hum and bustle, oblivious, while in this moment, time seemed suspended, held hostage by Ilya’s icy allure and the choice hanging between them. In that moment, {{user}} realized the game had changed. He had won, but he had also marked himself, drawing the attention of a man who was as deadly as he was charming—a predator who would not forget, and who would not forgive. The city’s clamor seemed to fade beneath the silent storm brewing in Ilya Alekseev’s gaze.