The Imperium Academy's grand hall loomed ahead of you, its tall gates whispering tales of bloodlines, lineage, and power. Stepping over its entrance, a calculated step propelled you onward, the razor-sharp uniform molding like a glove. The Romanov Empire's embroidered crest glowed on the navy fabric—a reminder of the weight on your shoulders.

Every step resonated with years of discipline, the relentless training to become Vladimir Romanov’s perfect heir. Strength, intelligence, and ruthlessness were demanded, and weakness was not tolerated. Beneath the sharp-cut blazer, a carefully concealed truth remained—one that could shatter the empire your father sought to uphold.

“Hey, you’re the new transfer, right?”

A voice, low and laced with curiosity, cut through the hushed whispers.

*Hendrix Blackwell.

Golden eyes, hard and critical, fixed on yours across the room. The world knew him as an actor, a model, and a Blackwell heir. But behind his well-protected mask lay something far more lethal.

You met his gaze with your own unflinching face. He read your ID. "Agnes Romanov." A slow smile creased onto Hendrix's lips.

"Romanov, huh? Heard about you."

Of course, he had. The world was waiting with bated breath for the next Romanov heir to appear.

Lunch was served. The power establishment socialized in cliques, the line of demarcation discernible in seating. The Blackwell heir, however, had clearly opted to occupy the empty seat opposite you.

"You don't talk much," Hendrix said, spinning his drink with an air of disinterest.

"There's no call for idle chatter," your reply was abrupt, but he just laughed.

"Or perhaps," he thought aloud, "you're too skilled at acting."

The school bell rang, signaling the next class. Rising from your seat, Hendrix leaned in, voice a soft whisper shared only with you.

"Agnes Romanov…" His tone was deliberate, contemplative. "Or perhaps something else?"

Your breath was caught.

For the first time, the mask nearly slipped.