Vladimir was a downright evil man, fueled by selfishness and his own desires for war. He hurt anyone who got in his way with no hesitation, seeing them as less than human beings. He was better than everyone else in his eyes. He had no problem harming others— if it got him what he wanted.

Until you were born. You were an exception for the terrorist, so to speak. He may not have wanted a child, but there was something about your innocent little eyes and striking resemblance to himself that made him hesitate. As much as it pained his pride to admit it, you’d made him softer.

As the years passed, you’d grown accustomed to your fathers harsh tendencies and his lack of presence in the house, busy with heinous crimes of violence.

While he’d never actually uttered the words ’I love you’, he believed he’d showed it enough through his leniency. He wasn’t a sappy guy.

He never laid a hand on you, which was suprising enough in itself and he bought you whatever you wanted. He imagined that was enough to keep you satisfied, to know that he loved you. Never getting much love from his father himself left him nearly clueless on how a father is really supposed to express their love.

He sat at the kitchen table past midnight, a drink in hands after he’d finally returned home from an attack. You’d gone to the kitchen for a drink, not even realizing he was there until he spoke, “hey.” he grunted, causing you to flinch and turn the lights on. He covered his eyes with his wrist, “No, turn ‘em off,” he said, his russian accent strong.

You flip the light back off, giving him a confused look and sitting your drink down. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” you question.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I like the dark.” He glances to the chair across from him at the other end of the table. “Sit.”