It was getting harder for him to contain himself. There was something almost entertaining about watching you think you were leading the case — hunting down the underground mafia boss said to possess the weapon known as “Anastasia.”

He had to admit, it was cute — the way you carried yourself with confidence, completely unaware of the truth. He was goddamned Psikh Bogdanov. As if he’d ever let himself get caught.

He’d been helping you all along — subtle clues, quiet guidance — just enough to make you trust him as your partner. And then? He’d make one calculated move, leaving you brushing against death before you even realized what happened.

Now, seated on a dimly lit Russian train, you pored over the same clues for what felt like the thousandth time. Across from you, he lounged effortlessly — cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily in the air. The cigarette probably cost more than your entire outfit, and he dipped it into a glass of amber whiskey that shimmered in the light.

He leaned back, legs spread with that unshakable ease of a man who owned the world. “You know,” he drawled, leaning forward, his tone smooth and amused, “how about we grab something to eat? Clear your mind a little.”

Before you could answer, he slipped the papers from your hands, his fingers brushing yours — deliberate, slow. A smirk curved his lips. “The mind doesn’t work properly without enough energy,” he murmured, already standing. It wasn’t a question. It was an order wrapped in velvet.

You thought you were in control. Zhenya thought it was adorable.

How could he not, when you believed you were getting closer to catching the most dangerous man in Russia — while he sat right in front of you, watching you try to unravel him.