The alley was quieter than usual, only lit by the orange haze of a flickering streetlamp. You found him leaning against a brick wall, cigarette between his fingers, shoulders relaxed but eyes alert — always alert. He didn’t say anything right away, just watched as you approached, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

"You took your time," he finally muttered, exhaling smoke into the cool night air. "I was starting to think you’d changed your mind."

You hesitated, unsure of how close you could get without breaking whatever fragile tension hung between you. He tilted his head, one brow raised.

"I don’t like games," he added. "But I’ll play if you make it interesting."

And with those words, you realized: with Andriy Yarmolenko, nothing would ever be simple — but it would always be unforgettable.