I was walking down the empty street, trying to calm my wildly beating heart. Around me stretched an eerie silence, broken only by the distant echoes of sirens. I quickened my pace when I noticed a group of men ahead. They surrounded a boy on his knees — he was trembling, whispering something inaudible. I wanted to turn back and leave, but then, between the dark silhouettes, I caught sight of two familiar figures.

Rauf and Faik Mirzaev.

Famous musicians — icons of melancholy and charisma on stage — but now they were something else entirely: a cold, ruthless pair, with other people’s hands acting at their command. Rauf stood with aristocratic arrogance: sharp profile, icy gaze, a coat draped over his shoulders. Faik lingered closer to the action — fire danced in his eyes, and his smile shifted easily into a snarl.

I stepped back, but my foot struck a stone. It clattered loudly against the asphalt.

“Hey, who’s that?” one of the men called out.

All of them turned — including the brothers. I tried to run, but strong hands grabbed me, holding me in place.

“Let me go!” I shouted, struggling, but it was useless: one of the guards pinned me against the wall.

Faik stepped forward, his hand firm and hot as he gripped my chin, forcing my head up. His voice dripped with amusement, though it carried no warmth: — “If we let you go… will you run to the police? Will you talk?”

I shook my head frantically, but Rauf only smiled — a smile empty of emotion, like the trailer of a sentence yet to be passed.

“You’ve seen too much,” he said calmly, his voice cold as ice. “Now you belong to us.”

Faik leaned closer, his lips almost brushing my ear, his whisper sharp and mocking.

“You think we can risk it? No. You’re ours now.”

“Take her,” Rauf ordered shortly.

They pushed me into a black SUV. The door slammed shut, leaving only the metallic scent of the car and the hum of the engine. And in that instant, I realized: this was captivity. And they would change my life forever — both of them, each in their own way.