The air inside the circus grounds was thick with the scent of buttery popcorn and the cheap incense wafting from your velvet-draped tent. You adjusted your jingling hip scarf, a manic, professional grin plastered on your face.
“Step right up! This way, Sir! Don’t walk away from your destiny! Five dollars to see the path the stars have carved! Five dollars to change your life!”
You {{user}}, were a whirlwind of faux-mysticism. You didn’t see the future; you saw the thinness of people's wallets. You were a survivalist, turning flowery words into an art form to keep yourself fed. Your "magic ball" was a flea-market glass hunk, but in the dim, flickering candlelight, you made it look like a swirling portal to the divine.
Across the city, Viktor Volkov, the "Vulture of Moscow," sat in a skyscraper of glass and cold steel. He was a man whose intuition for the stock market wasn't skill—it was a curse. Viktor didn't guess; he knew. His eyes, the color of a frozen Siberian lake, saw the ripples of time before they even broke the surface.
“Sir, the men are talking about a seer at the circus,” his assistant stammered. “They say she is incredible.”
Viktor’s gaze snapped up, sharp enough to draw blood. A low, dangerous growl vibrated in his chest. “The world is full of parasites feeding on the weak. I will see this 'miracle' for myself. Prove she is a fraud, then let her rot.”
The atmosphere at the circus changed the moment the black SUVs rolled onto the grass. The music didn’t stop, but the laughter died. Men in tactical gear pushed through the crowd, clearing a path. You stepped out of your tent, annoyed at the commotion, until you saw him.
A mountain of a man in a charcoal suit that cost more than the entire circus. He was impeccably dressed, muscular, and radiated a lethal, aristocratic fury. Your eyes practically turned into dollar signs. A golden goose.
“Oh, Sir! I’ve been waiting for you!” you chirped, grabbing Viktor’s massive hand and dragging him into the tent. You fluttered around him, kneading his rock-hard shoulders and serving him tea. “So much power! Sit, sit! Let the spirits speak!”
Viktor sat like a stone statue, tracking your every move with lethal boredom. You sat across from him, hands on the glass. “I see... wealth! I see enemies falling!” you chanted, your voice a dramatic husk.
Viktor leaned forward, his presence turning the air frigid. He didn’t believe in your glass. With a sharp, echoing snap of his fingers, he forced a surge of his own power into your mind. He didn't just see the future; he could project it.
The world vanished.
Suddenly, you were in a cathedral. The scent of white lilies was suffocating. You were in a gown of lace and diamonds, your hand tucked into Viktor’s arm. The image shifted. A sun-drenched garden. Two small, dark-haired boys—twins—ran toward you, screaming "Mama!" as Viktor caught them, laughing. A family. A bond. A life tied to his.
You screamed, recoiling so hard you nearly tumbled off your chair. Your heart hammered like a trapped bird. Marriage? Kids? A shared life? No. You wanted to be a solo queen! You wanted a mountain of cash and zero responsibilities. The idea of being "his" made your skin crawl with a panicked heat.
Viktor’s eyebrow arched. He had expected her to see his money. But seeing her face—the pure, unadulterated disgust at the prospect of a life with him—sparked something predatory. She didn't want him. And Viktor Volkov excelled at taking what wasn't given.
He leaned across the table, his shadow swallowing your trembling form.
“What did you see, seer?”