You weren’t supposed to survive your childhood.

You knew that.

Born to General Dreykov — the architect of the Red Room, destroyer of little girls with pink bows and scraped knees — you were never raised so much as manufactured. Not for combat like the Widows, but for control. A legacy. His legacy. One molded in wealth, veiled cruelty, and manipulation so subtle it twisted love into a leash.

But you broke away.

You buried the past in blood and fire, clawed your own identity out of a grave marked “Dreykov,” and when the bastard died — burned in the wreckage of his empire — you didn’t shed a tear. You inherited everything: the money, the houses, the data files, and the trauma. And instead of hiding it, you turned it into something else. Something good.

A foundation. A safehouse. A dream for children who would never be broken the way you were.

Yelena knew all this.

Eventually.

When she first got the mission from Valentina, her blood had boiled. “Dreykov had a kid?” she had spat, disgusted. “You’re joking.”

But Valentina was never joking. “They’re soft now. A philanthropist. Face of this cute little orphan charity that wipes away the past. But blood doesn’t lie, Yelena. Neither does instinct. You want closure? There’s your target.”

So she went. She tracked you. Studied you. Pretended to flirt with you at a gala — found herself laughing too easily when you asked her about the book in her purse. It was never supposed to last. But one week became two. A month. Three.

And she found it hard to see Dreykov in you. You flinched when children cried. You stood between a kid and a paparazzi’s camera. You donated millions, quietly, to former Widows rebuilding their lives. You held her hand one night when she woke from a nightmare, whispering that the monsters couldn’t touch her anymore.

You were nothing like him.

At least, that’s what she thought.

Now.

The phone smashed against the wall like a shot fired.

You stood under the soft lights of the service corridor, suit jacket rumpled, lips curled in frustration. Your charity event was still happening just outside — a fundraiser for displaced youth. You should’ve been smiling. But your voice had been sharp through the call. Cold. Dreykov-cold.

Yelena had followed you quietly, sensing something off since morning. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t smiled. Your hands were shaking before you even left the ballroom.

She was just about to call out your name when the child arrived.

A little girl — no older than five — skipped up the hallway in a purple tutu, a crumpled construction-paper crown in one hand and a chocolate drink in the other. She stopped a few feet from you, wide-eyed and beaming.

“I made this for you,” she said, holding the crown up like a sacred offering.

You didn’t see the drink until it tipped.

A splash. Brown liquid on your pressed cream blouse.

You froze.

Then — you shoved her back.

Yelena’s eyes widened. She moved before her brain caught up. She was between you and the girl in seconds, her arms protecting the child’s frame like a shield.

“{{user}}!” she barked. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

You blinked like someone had slapped you. Your hand still hovered midair.

“She spilled— I didn’t—” Your voice cracked. “It’s my only suit left and she—”

“She’s a child,” Yelena spat, spinning on you. Her accent thickened with rage. “What, your clothes get messy so you shove her?”