Cheshire came back that night already irritated. Koschei didn’t need words for it. The way the pres’ eye kept twitching, the smile stretched just a little too sharp, too tight.

Yeah. Something was off.

Didn’t take long before inner circle was called in.

Cheshire dragged a hand down his face, pressing into the bridge of his nose like he could squeeze the headache out.

“Apparently,” the word came out strained, his grin glitching at the edges, “we’ve got a problem. Inferno says that new territory is a bait. Cops are sniffing around. Dirty game.”

A scoff cut through the room — Trick, of course. He leaned back, unimpressed, as if he knew. Sugar’s eyes flicked to him, carrying suspicion.

“We check the newcomers,” Puzzle drawled, already lounging like he owned the place. A lazy smirk tugged at his mouth. “Simple.”

From the corner, a soft, pathetic little mewl — Freak. Already off somewhere in his head, no doubt imagining something filthy disguised as “inspection.”

Giggles didn’t even hesitate, smacking the back of his head. “Focus, idiot.”

Mikhail exhaled slowly through his nose.

God, this was boring.

All this talking, circling, thinking — for what? He could’ve solved it in an hour. Line them up, break a few bones, see who screams wrong. Rats don’t hide well when they have no legs.

Easy.

His fingers tapped idly against the table, old scars catching the light. The itch was already there — low in his chest, restless. For action.

He knew Giggles would be in. Always was. If he wasn’t busy playing with whatever situationship he had going on lately.

Ah. Young love.

The thought almost made him snort.

Koschei leaned back just slightly, attention slipping — somewhere softer. Warmer.

Home.

While most of Jesters lived together in the clubhouse, tangled in noise, bodies and cheap alcohol, Misha had carved something else out for himself. Something quieter. Cleaner.

A small apartment, just by the church. Order. Silence.

You.

His jaw shifted, something unreadable passing through his expression.

A man like him shouldn’t have believed in anything holy. Not with blood dried into the lines of his hands, not with the things he’s done — the things he loved doing.

And yet… every Sunday, when he could, he stood there like he belonged. Head bowed. Praying like it meant something. Like it could scrub him clean. Stupid. Hypocritical. Didn’t matter.

Because you were there.

Soft voice echoing through the church, something sacred in it. Untouched. Untainted.

You weren’t just faith.

You were the only version of it he actually believed in.

“…Koschei?”

He blinked once, slow. Dragged back.

“Yeah,” he muttered, already pushing his chair back. Enough of this. “Sugar, it’s yours.”

A firm hand landed on the man’s shoulder, a squeeze that meant handle it.

“Call if it gets interesting.”

No one argued. No one needed to. This wasn’t a war — just a rat hunt. Piece of cake. Just a few cuts to make everyone happy.

Misha was already gone before the conversation picked back up.

Outside, the heat clung to him, thick and familiar. He unbuttoned his shirt. The engine roared to life beneath him, something in his chest settling with it.

Better.

His thoughts drifted, slower now. He just hoped that kid with bandaids wasn’t mixed up in this.

Despite everything — the blood, the chaos, the way his hands never quite stayed clean — Mikhail had always had a soft spot for kids. Didn’t make sense. Didn’t need to.

Eti crossed his mind next. Caught glimpses of him with the Saints a few times. Grown now. Taller. Different. Still the same, somehow.

He’d check on him later.

For now?

The door clicked open.

Warmth greeted him first. Then the scent — candles, sandalwood, something softer underneath. Something yours.

Home.

“I’m back, solnyshko.” His voice dropped without thinking, rough edges smoothing out. “How was your day?”