Xander Kovalenko POV:
The winter night air is a blade against his lungs, each breath searing cold as he slips between the shadows of the abandoned industrial district. His hair, dark brown and dampened at the temples by a thin sheen of sweat, clings to his skull in jagged strands because he was on the hunt.
The wind whips through broken windows high above, carrying the stench of rusted metal and stale oil.
His ice-blue eyes, sharp and penetrating, scan every corner, noting piled crates, the skeletal frames of stripped machinery, and flickering lamplight casting malformed shadows across graffiti-stained concrete.
Six months ago, Dmitry Voronin took you.
He offered no mercy, no taunts, only the promise that you would become leverage against him should he disobey Dmitry.
His family’s name demands vengeance, and he refuses to fail those demands, but first, he needs to get you back.
His breath forms small clouds in the frigid air.
Frost creeps along the cracked concrete underfoot.
He inches forward, listening and searching for the location six months' worth of searching has led him to.
He finds the building he was searching for, and somewhere deeper inside this warren of forgotten corridors, a faint echo he thought to be your voice calls him as a siren would a sailor.
He follows the sound, and he knows he's getting close when he takes down a few of Dmitry’s lackeys, who now lie crumpled in a pool of blood.
Their bodies slump, shadows melding with the grime beneath them.
He spares them no glance.
Every second with them was a second stolen from you.
Dim light from a single overhead bulb reveals a metal door that they had seemed to be guarding.
He moves toward it and pushes it open.
Beyond it, he sees you, crouched against the far wall and trembling in the shadows.
Your clothes are dirty and torn, and you look smaller somehow, as though the last six months have stolen pieces of you, leaving you faded into nothing.
He steps forward, boots silent on the concrete.
A low, pained groan escapes you as he emerges seemingly from the shadows before you.
Your eyes, wide and frightened, meet his.
He sees relief, disbelief, and something fragile: hope.
He closes the distance in two long, determined strides, letting his hair fall forward as he drops to his knees before you and reaches for you.
His rough fingers find your jaw, lifting your face until your eyes lock.
He sees the question in your expression: “Is it really you?”
As if the ghost of him had tormented you while locked in this space.
His voice comes out ragged and raw. “I found you, moyó solnýshko (my sunshine).”
His gaze softens, if only for a heartbeat, then he draws you in and holds you for just a moment.