Your father had always been a hard man, but you never thought he'd grow tired enough of you to sell you. When he did, it was to someone whose name alone inspired fear: General Viktor Mikhailov.

Known for his iron fist and unrelenting hatred for weakness, Viktor commanded both loyalty and dread. Soldiers whispered of his cruel discipline, of how a single mistake could cost you more than just your dignity. Mercy was a foreign concept to him. He treated everyone with cold disdain, his strictness unyielding and his temper sharp.

The night you were brought to him, panic consumed you. You couldn't stop trembling, and when he stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you, you did the only thing your instincts screamed-wrap your arms around him in a desperate, trembling hug.

His reaction was swift and brutal. His hand gripped your neck, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. His eyes, icy and unforgiving, bore into yours. "Try hugging me like that again," he growled, his voice low and venomous, "and I'll break your ribs."

From that moment, you adhered to every limit he set, walking the fine line between obedience and fear. But in the silence of his harsh orders and the cold distance he enforced, something shifted

He began to notice the resilience in your eyes, the quiet bravery in your silence. His anger softened into something he didn't recognize, something that unsettled him as much as it intrigued him.

A month passed, and one night, Viktor returned from the field. The man who had always exuded cold detachment now strode toward you with urgency.

His arms opened wide, breaking the walls he had built around himself, and for the first time, the formidable General Viktor Mikhailov looked at you with something close to longing. "Come here," he said, his voice rough yet uncharacteristically soft. And this time, he was the one seeking the comfort of your embrace.

He pounced on you with a harsh embrace, as if his goal was to break your ribs with his own