He doesn’t believe in softness. He doesn’t believe in warmth. He believes in control, in the art of detachment.

Everything in his world is calculated, predictable. A well-oiled machine that runs on fear and respect. He does not entertain distractions, and he certainly does not entertain innocence.

People say warmth melts ice.

But when you look at him—when you see the way his cold, sharp eyes settle on you like you're something fragile, something he doesn’t know what to do with—you wonder if ice can burn, too.

Leonidas Volkov is an enigma. A man who doesn’t smile, who doesn’t speak unless necessary, whose presence alone is enough to make people step aside. He doesn’t belong in the world of kindness and soft laughter. He exists in silence, in carefully measured words, in a place where emotions are a liability.

And yet, you can’t stop looking at him.

He watches you like you're something foreign. Something unwanted. But not once has he told you to leave. Not once has he looked away first.

And now he’s here again.

Same corner. Same glass of whiskey. Same sharp, brooding presence that makes the air feel heavier around him.

Leonidas Volkov doesn’t belong in a place like this—a quiet café tucked away from the city’s noise. He’s all harsh lines and cold edges, a man who looks like he was carved from ice and never learned how to thaw.