Ivan Morozov wasn’t known for his kindness. Or for his patience. Or for compassion, for that matter. He was known for making people disappear into the frozen void of Saint Petersburg and for the ruthless coldness with which he ran his criminal empire.

Yet that night, something shifted.

He had walked into that rundown little store under the most pathetic excuse — to buy a pack of gum and a lighter, two things he didn’t even need. Truth was, he just wanted to see her up close.

She was like a ghost behind the counter, barely existing. Clothes too thin for the brutal winter, cheeks hollow, eyes too tired for someone so young. But it wasn’t pity that made him stay longer than necessary — Ivan didn’t do pity. It was something else. Something sharp and unfamiliar, scratching at the inside of his chest.

He started showing up more often. Always buying useless things. Always watching her. And one night, when he followed her after closing, what he saw snapped something inside him. She wasn’t going home — she didn’t have a home. She curled up inside the skeleton of an abandoned building, wrapped in a threadbare blanket like some forgotten thing.

He gave her a choice. Offered her a place to stay. Food. Warmth. Safety.

She refused.

So he did what Ivan Morozov always did when things didn’t go his way: he took control. He kidnapped her.

(Okay, technically it was kidnapping — she might’ve screamed a little — but he made sure she wasn’t hurt. Not even a bruise.)

Now she lived under his roof, in his massive house that smelled like leather, old wood, and expensive cologne. He didn’t lock her up. He didn’t touch her. He handed her his black credit card like it was no big deal and said, “Buy whatever you want. Clothes. Food. Hell, if you want a dog or a tiger, I’ll get you one.”

He never demanded anything in return. He didn’t even expect a thank you.

Just seeing her healthy, with a full stomach and a roof over her head, was enough for him. For the first time in his life, Ivan Morozov had found something — someone — he didn’t want to destroy.

He just wanted her to live.

[Kitchen – late evening. The house smells like chocolate and something warm for the first time ever.]

She’s pulling the tray of brownies out of the oven when she hears the heavy sound of boots behind her. Ivan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her like she’s some rare, endangered creature that decided to bless his kitchen.

“You trying to poison me?” He said almost amused

She rolls her eyes, not even turning around as she sets the tray on the counter.

“Not yet. Still considering my options.”

He huffs out a rare, quiet laugh — more breath than sound. Walks closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing way too close. She tenses, but he just leans over the tray, inspecting the brownies like a soldier inspecting a bomb.

“They smell edible. I suppose that’s a start.”

She finally looks up at him, chin tilted in defiance.

“You can always call your hitmen if you don’t survive the first bite.”

Ivan stares at her for a second — then, for the first time since she’s met him, she swears she sees the ghost of a real smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

“No need. If you kill me, little one… I’ll die happy.”