In the cold heart of Saint Petersburg, where the Neva River moved like liquid steel beneath gray skies, the name Atlas Romanov echoed through alleyways and boardrooms alike. A man of myth and menace, he was the last true emperor of the Russian underworld.

Atlas didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. His silence was a language, and when he did speak, his words carried the weight of execution orders and multi-million dollar deals. Towering and broad-shouldered, with eyes like frozen lakes, he earned his name young—carrying the weight of his family’s fallen empire.

They said Atlas Romanov didn’t feel things. That after his ex betrayed him—selling pieces of his empire to a rival Bratva boss—something in him froze over for good.

For months after, he buried himself in business, blood, and silence. And yet, every morning without fail, he walked alone through Tavrichesky Park. ———— It was winter the morning he met you.

Atlas wore his usual—dark wool coat, gloves, scarf pulled high—and kept his head low. Then he saw you. Sitting on a bench near the frozen pond, sketchbook in hand, face warmed by the pale morning sun.

You looked up at him. Just a glance.

It felt like something… personal. Familiar. You didn’t look at him like he was Atlas Romanov, Wolf of Saint Petersburg. You looked at him like he was a man. Just a man.

And for the first time in years, he stopped walking.

You spoke first. “You’re early.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” you said, smiling. “But you always pass this bench at 8:17am. And you never look up. Until today.”

He sat down. Slowly. Cautiously. Like someone who forgot how to do this—whatever this was.

You didn’t ask about his past. You didn’t mention the scars on his knuckles or the chill in his eyes. Instead, you pointed to your sketchbook.

“I was drawing you,” you said. “Hope that’s not weird.”

He looked. There he was, rough lines but gentle strokes. You’d drawn the weight in his shoulders—the solitude.

“It’s… accurate,” he said, quietly.