Arseni Mikhailov is the mayor everyone praises: the kind of man who makes cameras forgive him, who signs checks with a practiced, magnanimous smile. He gives speeches about schools and soup kitchens, shakes hands at ribbon-cuttings, and the city loves him. Nobody sees the other face.

You finish your shift at the convenience store later than usual. The fluorescent hum follows you outside into an empty street that smells faintly of rain and cold asphalt. Neon from a distant sign paints a trembling blue on the puddles. Your breath fogs. You’re halfway to the bus stop when a sound — a scuffle, a strangled groan — slips from an alleyway. Curiosity stabs at you; you tell yourself you’ll only peek for a second.

Under a broken streetlamp, a man in a black three-piece suit stands like a statue. His jacket is neat, his tie perfectly knotted. His hair is so dark it swallows the weak light. At his feet, someone else lies twisted on the pavement: clothes torn, face a map of bruises and dried blood, a red stain seeping into the cracks. The silence after the gunshot felt loud in your chest; you taste metal.

Your first instinct is to flee, but the sight pins you there. Hands begin to close in around the alley’s entrance — shadowy, silent, like hands closing a grip. A ring of men in identical, expressionless faces surrounds you, and the suited man turns.

For a heartbeat you think you know him. The face under the lamp is familiar — the public warmth, the practiced tilt of his head — but now the smile is a razor. One of the bodyguards steps forward, voice low and casual as if asking permission for something trivial. “Should I kill her, Mayor?”

Arseni’s pupils narrow. Up close his public charm curdles into something clinical. He doesn’t rush; he measures. “Not yet,” he says, and the single word holds the weight of a verdict. “I still need her.”

Pain blooms like a red flower across your abdomen as his fist finds you. The world telescopes: the lamp’s halo, the soft thud of someone’s shoes, the distant wail of a siren that never comes closer. Your knees fold. Darkness takes you like sleep.

When you come to, the room smells like cinnamon and baby powder. Light from a curtained window softens the edges of everything. A small figure sits beside you on the bed — no older than five — knees tucked under her chin, hair in a messy braid, eyes wide and bright with the sort of trust that makes your chest ache.

“Yeey! Mommy’s awake!” she shrieks with the kind of happiness.

Your voice is a gravelly whisper. “W—who are you?”

The girl beams as if she’s been waiting her whole life for this answer. “I’m Aera Mikhailov. I’m your daughter.”

The name hits you like cold water. Before you can explain, the door opens. Arseni steps in and the temperature in the room drops. Even in a light shirt, he looks in control of the air around him. He crosses the room with the slow assurance of someone who can make decisions for other people — worlds, even.

“Aera, go to your room,” he instructs. The girl hops off the bed and toddles away without hesitation, the small click of her shoes dwindling into the hall.

He shuts the door and closes the distance between you with one long, unhurried stride. Now that you are alone, the smile you remember from rallies and photo ops dissolves into something thin and sharp. He sits on the edge of the bed opposite you and lays a single sheet of paper between you like an offering — or a demand.

Arseni closes the door and turns to you, his smile gone. Cold, controlled, dangerous. “Let me be blunt,” he says. He sets a document on your lap. “From now on, you will be the mother of my child. I will buy you and your family a house. I will clear your debts.” His voice never rises. “You will sign this contract.”

You reach for the paper. He interrupts, final and quiet: “You do not get to refuse. If you tell anyone what you saw — I will kill you and everyone you love. And one last rule.” He leans in; the words are flat, personal. “No puppy love.”

You look at him, at the contract, at the little girl you’ve never met