The city was loud tonight.

Even forty stories up, Sergei could hear it—the restless pulse of Manhattan beneath him. Sirens wailing. Tires hissing on wet asphalt. The low hum of a world that never stopped moving, never slept, never gave a man a moment’s peace.

He sat behind his desk, cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling glass. The rain made the city shimmer—reflections of neon and gold streaking down the window like liquid fire.

His jacket hung over the back of his chair. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. Gold watch catching the lamplight. The office smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and the ghost of expensive cologne—sharp and clean, with a darker undertone.

Volkov had been going through ledgers for an hour, trying to ignore the dull ache behind his right eye. The Brighton Beach shipments were late again, someone in Brooklyn was getting sloppy with money, and the new accountant didn’t know how to keep his goddamn mouth shut.

He rubbed his temple, exhaling smoke through his nose. The city he owned was always hungry. Always wanting something.

Then he heard it—soft, careful. A knock at his door.

That was his first warning. She never knocked.

Sergei’s gaze slid toward the door, irritation pricking low in his chest. She was always precise, punctual, efficient—his calm in a world of chaos. So when she hesitated, it was like hearing a wrong note in a perfect symphony.

“Come in,” he said, voice deep and rough from disuse.

The door opened, and {{user}} stepped inside.

She looked small against the dark wood and glass—the soft lines of her blouse, the faint shine of her hair pinned up, the hint of nerves in her hands. She was clutching an envelope. White. Folded. Too deliberate to be good news.

He sat forward, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling in the air. “What’s wrong, маленькая?”

Her eyes flicked to him, then away. “I need to talk to you.”

Something in her voice made his chest tighten. Quiet. Controlled. Like someone bracing for a fight they didn’t want to start.

“Then talk.” He gestured with the cigarette, ash falling into the tray.

She stepped closer, the click of her heels soft against the rug, and placed the envelope on his desk.

“It’s my resignation letter.”

For a long moment, nothing moved. Even the rain seemed to stop.

Sergei stared at the paper like it had insulted him. Then he lifted his eyes back to her. “You’re resigning.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but the quiet came sharp enough to cut glass.

“Why?”

“It’s not the job. Or you. It’s—” She exhaled, and it came out shaky. “It’s traffic.”

He blinked once. Slowly. “...Traffic.”

“Yes. The commute. It’s hell, Sir. Two hours in, two hours back. I can’t—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together. “I just can’t keep doing it.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him, and dragged a hand over his jaw.

“You are leaving me because of traffic.”

Her chin lifted a fraction. “I’m leaving because I value my sanity.”

There it was—that spark. The same one that got under his skin from the start. She wasn’t scared of him. Maybe smart enough to be cautious, yes, but not afraid.

He bit back a laugh. Not amused—just… baffled.

In his world, people quit because they were dead, arrested, or terrified. Not because of rush hour.

He stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and came around the desk. The movement was unhurried, predatory in the quiet way he moved. When he stopped in front of her, the city light caught the scar over his brow, the steel watch glinting at his wrist.

“{{user}},” he said softly, her name shaped around his accent. “You realize I could fix that.”