The ballroom lights flicker like dying stars, casting gold and ice-blue across velvet floors and diamond-cut chandeliers. Music plays. Laughter rings. Power drips from every corner of the Grand Hall.

And yet… Valentin Reznikov sits alone.

One arm draped over his bent knee, sleeves rolled up, showing inked skin and veined muscle. His ash-grey eyes scan the crowd with that quiet, eerie calm—like he’s watching something already dead.

Then, he sees you.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn’t look away. And for some reason—you walk toward him.

No one else dares. But you? You were never afraid of wolves. Even ones with eyes like frozen steel.

He doesn’t speak until you’re close enough for him to smell the magic on your skin.

His lips part, voice low.

“You’re smaller than I imagined, malen’kaya.” [маленькая – little one]

A pause, and a tilt of the head.

“Still… I see why they all crawl after you like obedient dogs.” His voice sharpens—like a blade held just under silk.

Then it drops again, softer, but colder:

“Your magic broke my sister.” “So now…” He leans in, one corner of his mouth twitching like a suppressed smile. “Я тебя сломаю.” [I will break you.]

And just before you can reply, he murmurs—

“Let’s see, дорогая…” [darling] “…what breaks first.”