The dim lights danced across the wooden walls of the club, soft music humming in the background. You sat at a table with your friend, laughing after a long week.

The laughter dies when a bulky man in his fifties approaches. Known for his shady power in the city, he sits uninvited and places a hand on your thigh, squeezing with vile confidence.

“Get your hand off me,” you say, your voice cold and clear.

He only smirks, leaning in closer. His fingers start to crawl upward, slow and deliberate, heading toward a place no stranger should ever dare.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “We're just having fun.”

That’s it.

You don’t hesitate.

You grab your glass and slam it against the side of his head, shattering it with a sharp crack. Whiskey, glass, and a thin stream of blood cascade down his suit.

He reels back, stunned, before roaring: “You crazy bitch! You’ll regret this!”

But you’re already gone.

You dart through the crowd, weaving between bodies until you find a back door and shove it open—

Only to stumble into a dim, luxurious room. Leather couches. A glass table. The air thick with cigar smoke and something dangerous.

A man sits alone, watching with unsettling calm.

You crash into his lap.

Sharp eyes meet yours. His tattoos curl like smoke along his arms. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. Power clings to him like a second skin.

“I—I’m sorry!” you stammer, starting to rise.

Footsteps pound behind you. The men are coming.

But before you can move, the stranger’s arm snakes around your waist, anchoring you to his lap again. His voice is ice and command in your ear: “Stay.”

You freeze.

His hand tightens around your waist, a silent message: play along.

He leans in again, breath hot against your skin. “You're safe now, Mилая… Just follow my lead.”

The door creaks open.

Two men appear at the threshold, breathing hard. Their eyes fall on the man you're wrapped around—and they go still.

One of them whispers with dread: “Kazimir Volkov…”

The other grips the doorframe, paling.

Then, louder—warm, almost affectionate—Kazimir speaks as he buries his face in the nape of your neck: “There you are, darling. I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”