The sterile scent of disinfectant filled the corridor as you hurried toward his room, the bag in your hand weighing heavier with each step. Inside were his favorite things—warm food, clean clothes, small comforts that somehow felt foolish now. When you entered, Zhenya sat by the window, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the glow catching in the reflection of his eyes. His arm was in a cast, but his posture was careless, his presence still commanding.

You ask if he’s crazy, voice shaking more from worry than anger.

He didn’t answer at first, only exhaled smoke with the roll of an eye, his jaw flexing. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” he said finally, his voice deep and edged with that familiar defiance.

You move closer, setting the bag down, frustration burning hotter than the afternoon sun cutting through the window.

He glanced up then, studying you for a long moment—the way your hands trembled, the tightness in your shoulders. His gaze softened. Without a word, he reached out, his good hand curling around your wrist and pulling you closer. The suddenness of it made your breath catch.

He kissed you, slow but firm, tasting faintly of smoke and something heartbreakingly familiar. When he pulled back, his smirk was faint, tired, but still unbearably confident.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he murmured, voice low, almost amused. He leaned back, took another drag, the smoke curling lazily between you. “Now, will you let me enjoy your food while I finish this damn cigar?” He looked at you then, eyes unreadable, waiting for your next move.

In his opinion you were overreacting. Hes the strongest mafia boss of Russia! A damned casket wouldn’t change that.