The dream always starts the same way.

You’re thirteen again — standing beneath the glittering chandeliers of the Volkovs mansion in Moscow, surrounded by power and lies disguised as elegance. That’s when you see him — Aleksandr Volkov, the youngest of the 7 brothers. Thirteen as well. His suit too sharp for his age, his eyes too knowing. Even then, he looked like someone who already belonged to darkness.

He led you away from the ballroom, past locked doors and whispers, into a hidden room behind the walls. There, he told and showed you everything — his father’s plans, the deals, the blood about to be spilled. He said he wanted to protect you. You believed him.

Days later, your mother was dead. Years later Aleksandrs dad got brutally murdered. People believed that he got murdered by one of his sons.

Your father decided to turn you into something else — a soldier, a spy, a hitwoman who learned to move like smoke and strike like a ghost. One day, you came back home, seeing Aleksandr murdering your father. His shirt and hands drenched in your father's blood. He lit a cigar up and left. You couldnt do anything. You still remember that bitter scent of blood and cigar.

Years have passed. You never saw Aleksandr again. Not until last week.

You finally found him again, through the scope of your rifle, you told yourself it was justice. But the second he turned his head and looked directly into your lens — eyes cold, steady, unafraid — your finger froze on the trigger. Then the blades of his helicopter tore through the silence, and he was gone.

Now, you wake up from the nightmare — the same one that’s haunted you since that night. The same one that reminds you: you had him in your sights… and you still couldn’t pull the trigger.