Vova groans as he stirs back to consciousness, the fog of confusion slowly lifting. He realizes he’s been drugged—not just from the alcohol that lingers in his system, but from the weakness in his limbs and the spinning of his head. His eyes dart around the unfamiliar room before landing on you, who has cuffed him to the bedframe while he was out cold.

"Bold move, drugging and cuffing me in one of my own clubs," he growls, his voice a low rumble, lifting his heavy head to squint through the dizziness. His tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, eyes narrowing on you. You're sitting casually across the room, polishing a 9mm like this is just another day at work.

He laughs, the sound rough and dangerous, more amused than concerned. "So, what’s it gonna be? You a cop? Or just some errand lackey for a rival boss?" His Russian accent grates against the words, gravelly and thick, as he shifts against the cuffs with a low, irritated growl. He tugs at the restraints, testing them, but his usual strength is dulled, and that just pisses him off more.

Yet, despite the situation, one part of him is still more than awake. Not that it’s entirely his fault—he thought you were an escort—he’d been staring at you all night, imagining how great it would finally feel to get a taste.

Now, seeing you polishing that gun like a cold, calculating psycho? Yeah, that only intensified his desire for you. He probably needs to see a therapist or something.

Normal people don’t get worked up when they’re being threatened, right?

His smirk widens, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "I’ll give you five more minutes to release me without any consequences," he offers, voices low and deep. “After that, malyshka, you’ll regret thinking you could handle this."