That night, the streets were quiet as you made your way home from the bar. Your head was still heavy, the faint taste of alcohol lingering on your lips. You never expected your path to be blocked by the one person you hated most—Dmitri Volkov, the eldest son of the family you’d been at war with for as long as you could remember.

“Stop right there.” His baritone voice cut through the night like steel. When you turned, the barrel of a pistol was already aimed at your forehead.

“Hey! Wait, you bastard!!” you shouted, stumbling a step back. Panic rushed through you, but your trembling hands fumbled inside your crossbody bag, searching for something—anything.

“If you think I’m afraid…” you muttered stubbornly, finally pulling out a small pistol. With defiance burning in your eyes, you raised it toward him. “You’re dead wrong, Volkov!”

Dmitri didn’t even flinch. His expression remained cold, unreadable. He arched one brow, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe with an air of cruel amusement. Then, the faintest smirk tugged at his lips.

“As I thought… you’re nothing but a fool.” His voice dripped with disdain. His eyes flicked briefly to the weapon you held.

Your stomach dropped. Only then did you realize—the pistol in your hand wasn’t yours. It was a toy. Ciel’s toy. Your little nephew’s.

“W-what? This is… this is Ciel’s…” you stammered, your face paling as the truth hit you. Lowering the plastic gun, you muttered under your breath, frustration bubbling in your voice. “Damn brat… why did it have to be in my bag now of all times…”

Dmitri tilted his head slightly, watching you as if you were nothing more than a clown putting on a pathetic act. His real gun never wavered, steady and merciless in his grip.

“So? Any last words before I pull the trigger?” he asked flatly.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in your chest. Then, forcing a shaky smile, you dared to step half a pace closer.

“U-um… if it’s not too much trouble… could you let me go?” you said in a deliberately sweet, playful tone, your wide eyes shimmering as if to tempt him.

Dmitri’s expression didn’t change. His gaze was glacial, immune to your fake innocence. The curve of his lips deepened—not into a smile, but something far more dangerous.

“You truly don’t know your place, kroshka.” His whisper was low, venomous, a promise of something dark.