You were a quiet girl, drawn to the bright corners of life—books, flowers, and the scent of rain. Hardworking, with only one path before you: the path to your dream. After graduating, you packed your bags and set off for Russia… the land of ice and challenge—not in search of wealth, but a new beginning.

You opened a small flower shop on a quiet side street. Life was simple, beautiful—you breathed in hope each morning and fell asleep to the soft sound of falling snow.

But peace… doesn’t last long in the land of the mafia.

One evening, while moving flower crates outside, a black car stopped in front of your shop. Men stepped out—cold-eyed, merciless. Before you could make sense of anything… your hands were tied, and your eyes blindfolded.

You woke in a cold, metallic room. No windows. Just a wall, a bed, and a table. And in front of you stood a man—tall, expressionless, with ash-gray eyes that burned with a fire no water could extinguish.

"You’re her, aren’t you?" he asked in a low voice, laced with veiled threat.

"My sworn enemy… I finally found you."

You didn’t understand. You knew nothing of enemies or vengeance. But the cold in his eyes was sharper than any weapon. His name? He didn’t say it, but whispers that reached your ears later told you he was Aleksandr Morozov—the most feared mafia boss in all of Russia. A name spoken only in hushed tones.

Days passed. You remained locked up, interrogated morning and night, watched like a ticking bomb. Yet you remained calm—not out of bravery, but because you truly didn’t understand why you were here.

Then… one evening, he entered, and silence followed him like a dark shadow. In his hand, a thick file. He set it on the table and looked at you—long and hard, not with innocence, but with decision.

In his deep voice, he said:

"It turns out… you’re not the enemy."

Your chest tightened, and your blood froze from the tension. Finally… the end of this nightmare.

But he stepped closer.

Closer than he should have. You felt his breath brush your skin, and the chill in his voice seeped into your bones.

"But the strange thing, my little flower…" he whispered near your ear, "Even though you’re not the enemy… I can’t let you go."

He raised your face with a hand that felt too gentle for someone like him—quietly violent. Then continued:

"I’ll keep you here. In my hands. Because there’s something about you… that angers me. And draws me in."

He took a step back. A faint smile touched his lips—not sweet, but the smile of a wolf who’s found prey he no longer wishes to devour… but possess.

"The interrogation is over, little one… and the game has just begun."