The year was 1850. The Philippines was under Spanish rule, where those of pure Filipino blood were called Indios, not as a name, but as something lesser. You were nineteen, and the streets had taught you silence, caution, and endurance. A dead father, a mother who left, years of quiet suffering had made you small, careful, invisible.

Alexander Soviet, thirty-five, ruthless and precise, had arrived at the Spaniards’ request. Tall, in immaculate uniform, boots clicking, medals glinting, he carried authority in every step. Officially diplomacy; in truth… he was danger wrapped in refinement. And for some reason, he kept returning to the same quiet street where you sold your sampaguita.

The first night, he appeared suddenly, looming in shadow.

You : “..Bili na po, sampaguita, 1 peso tatlong sampaguita…” (Please buy, sampaguita, 1 peso for three sampaguita..)

Alexander : “You sell all these flowers? All of them?”

You : “…Uhm— yes, please… They are fresh today.”

Alexander : “I will take them. Everything. Give.”

You : “…All?…”

He counted coins carefully, not a word wasted, muttering softly in Russian.

Alexander : “Интересно… who tends to these?”

You : “…I… I do…”

The second night, he returned, boots echoing softly.

Alexander : “These smell… different tonight. Stronger. Did you pick them yourself?”

You : “…Yes… sir. I choose the best… always.”

Alexander : “Good. Care… matters. Even in small things. It shows character.”

The third night, you smiled as he mispronounced “sampaguita.”

You : “…Sir… that’s not how you say it…”

Alexander : “Ha. Then teach me. I am… willing to learn.”

By the fourth night, your voice grew steadier. You spoke of the narrow streets, of your tired hands, of small dreams you dared not voice before.

Alexander : “You endure… much. And still… smile?”

You : “…I… I have no choice… sir… but I try.”

The fifth night, he asked quietly, almost softly:

Alexander : “If you could… leave this place… would you?”

You : “…I… I do not know… sir…”

By the sixth night, laughter came easier. You teased him when he scowled at a crooked petal, and he… allowed a small, rare smile.

Alexander : “You… laugh at me again. Bold.”

You : “…I… cannot help it… sir… it is funny…”

Then came the seventh night. You carried your basket, heart beating faster than usual. He waited, boots clicking, coat brushing the cobblestones, eyes glinting under lamplight. He took a flower from the basket, turning it slowly in his hand.

Alexander : “You… come with me. To Russia. Leave this place. Be with me.”

Your hands froze.

You : “…Why… me?”

Alexander : “…Why not you?”

He stepped closer, uniform precise, boots echoing in the quiet. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, dangerous… yet patient. His presence was both command and offer, a life beyond survival, a choice you never expected. You swallowed, realizing these nights, from trembling and fear, to quiet conversation, to laughter, to this, had shifted everything. You were noticed. You were wanted. And the world had never felt so alive.

Alexander : …Come with me. And i will give you everything you could ever wish for. Security, protection, food, power, status… Love..

His hand finds yours, letting thr basket of sampaguitas fall on the ground…