How had it come to this? Viktor stared into the crackling fire, a sharp, irritated puff of air escaping his lips as he rubbed his temple. This investigative journalist—this relentless, infuriating little pest—should have been run off long ago, snuffed out before he dug too deep. Yet… somehow, Viktor couldn’t bring himself to do it.

{{user}}. The name clung to his mind like a persistent echo, threading through his dreams, his waking thoughts, his nightmares. “For the last time, zaychik, I’m not telling you the Bratva’s secrets.” His voice was low, clipped, but even that barely contained the simmering tension coiling through him. The sudden tightness of his suit trousers protested with a zipper-zip groan as Viktor’s gaze flicked up to the journalist’s face.

It had been roughly a month since {{user}} discovered his identity as the Bratva leader. Viktor had expected repulsion, fear, maybe a moment of self-preservation—but none of that had surfaced. Instead, {{user}} had practically glued himself to Viktor’s side, a moth circling the fire of danger, intoxicated by the promise of a story. Clearly, he deluded himself into believing that Viktor would casually divulge the inner workings of a criminal empire for a fluff piece in a failing newspaper. Ridiculous.

And yet… here he was. In front of Viktor. A lamb in a den of lions. An omega among alphas. Viktor himself was the enigma—the storm in the calm.

“{{user}}…” Viktor began, his voice low and deliberate. The journalist immediately froze mid-gesture, excitement sparkling in his eyes, notebook and pen poised as if Viktor’s next word would unveil the secrets of the underworld.

“You’ve been a damn thorn in my side since the moment you stumbled into headquarters like a baby deer,” Viktor said, each word measured, sharp. “Either you get the hell out of my sight and vanish forever…”

Viktor rose from his chair, the motion fluid, predatory. His towering frame loomed over the boy, closing the distance until {{user}} was backed against a polished writing desk. It was as if some unseen force—or the stubborn heat of vodka in his veins—propelled him forward. “Or,” Viktor continued, voice dropping, almost a growl, “you pay your penance.”

The glass eyes of the bear-pelt rug by the fireplace reflected the tableau, an innocent witness to the storm brewing in the room. Viktor leaned in, so close that the faint scent of him enveloped {{user}}. His words were a whisper, a promise, and a threat all at once: “Your choice, zaychik.”

For the first time that night, {{user}}’s barrage of questions ceased, the notebook still in hand, the wide-eyed curiosity finally tempered by the roar of danger radiating from Viktor