This wasn't supposed to happen.

Nikolai was an important man, too important that no one would dare to do such thing as this, he didn't had enemies because he killed them all, no one would fool or outsmart Nikolai Volkov. He was dangerous, too dangerous for having anyone on his bad side, he did not know limits when someone crossed the line, and his line was very thin.

This was beyond repair, Katia knew that all of this men inside this mansion in their black suits could considered themselves dead.

Bootsteps echoed.

Slow. Measured. Different.

Not chaotic like the others.

Purposeful.

Commanding.

The room shifted subtly when he entered. Even the black-clad men straightened.

Respect. Authority.

Whoever this was— he was in charge.

Katia kept her head down, curls falling over her face, breathing uneven, trying to look smaller than she felt.

Just another frightened girl.

Just the mistress. No one would want the mistress right?

The boots stopped in front of her.

Silence stretched. Heavy and Waiting.

She felt it before she saw him — that strange weight of attention, like the air itself had narrowed.

A gloved hand caught her chin suddenly. Firm. Unyielding.

Her face was forced upward.

She gasped. And for the first time—

She looked directly into the dark lenses of a tactical mask.

Black fabric.
Black vest.
Black gloves.
A rifle slung casually over one shoulder.

Like she was a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

"Who's this?" one of the men nearby asked.

"Found her upstairs," another replied. "Volkov's mistress. The one he adores."

A pause.

"More than his dear wife?"

"Maybe."

Another silence.

Longer this time.

The masked man's grip tightened slightly.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to control.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Rough. Controlled.

"Take her."

Two simple words.

A sentence.

A verdict.

Her stomach dropped.

"W–wait— please— I don't know anything, I swear— I just live here— please—"

Her voice broke beautifully.

Desperately, like a terrified young woman should sound.

They hauled her to her feet again.

Past the crying staff and some overturned glasses, tables and vases.

Past the ruins that, probably the masked man had made.

Her pulse roared in her ears, because whatever these men were—

They weren't robbers maybe kidnappers, because weren't here for money. They were here for Nikolai.

And if they were here for Nikolai—

She could be a prey.

And somewhere deep in her chest, beneath the fear and the trembling and the carefully crafted innocence—

Something colder began to wake up.

They didn't treat her like a person when they moved her.

They treated her like luggage.

Something inconvenient that simply needed relocating.

A hand locked around each of her arms, fingers digging bruises into her skin as they half-dragged, half-walked her down another corridor, her bare feet slipping against marble too polished to grip.

"Please— please, you're hurting me— slow down—"

Her voice sounded thin. Fragile. Useless.

Neither man answered.

Their pace never changed.

Boots struck the floor in clean, synchronized rhythm — professional, mechanical — while she stumbled between them, robe barely clutched closed, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out.

They passed rooms she barely recognized.

Doors thrown open.

Drawers overturned.

Paintings tilted.

The mansion looked violated.

Stripped of its glamour.

Luxury reduced to debris.

Money suddenly meaningless in the presence of guns.

They stopped at a smaller office near the west wing — not Nikolai's main study, but one of the quieter rooms he used for private meetings. Shelves lined with books he had probably never read. A heavy desk. Two low leather couches facing each other. A crystal decanter of whiskey still resting on the table between them, two glasses half-filled, abandoned mid-conversation.

Like whoever had been there thought they'd be right back.

Like the night had been normal.

Before everything shattered.

The door opened.

They shoved her inside.

Hard.

She stumbled and fell onto the couch, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.

Pain flared up her spine.

For a second, black spots dotted her vision.

She curled in on herself instinctively, small, shaking, clutching her robe tighter.

Don't fight.
Don't argue.
Don't stand out.

Invisible.

Be invisible.

⸻

Bootsteps entered behind her.

Slower.

Heavier.

Measured.

She didn't need to look to know who it was.

The air changed again.

Like gravity had shifted toward one single point.

Authority.

The man from the living room.

The one the others listened to without question.

She kept her eyes on the floor.

Good girls didn't make eye contact.

Good girls survived.

⸻

"Status," he said.

His voice wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

One of the men answered immediately.

"We swept the house. Staff secured. Volkov's gone."

A beat.

"And her?"

There was a faint shuffle of papers. A tablet lighting up.

They had her file.

Of course they did.

They always had files.

The man began reading.

Flat. Clinical. Like reciting inventory.

"Katia Orlova. Twenty-six. Ukrainian-born. Relocated to Moscow with grandparents at eleven. Nail technician. No criminal record. No higher education. First contact with Nikolai Volkov three years ago at a trade fair. Maintained private relationship since. Multiple luxury transfers. Jewelry. Vehicles. Real estate. Property recently purchased in Moscow under her name."

Every sentence stripped her life down smaller and smaller.

Reducing her to bullet points.

To data.

To nothing.

"Subject considered a long-term companion. Higher than average asset value for a mistress. Volkov shows abnormal attachment. Increased probability of leverage."

Silence.

Then:

"She's useful," the second man said. "We keep her. Blackmail's viable. Rough her up if needed. Send pictures. He'll fold."

Her stomach twisted.

Rough her up.

Like she was furniture.

Like breaking her was strategy.

They kept talking over her head, discussing her future the way people discussed weather.

Pain.

Threats.

Negotiation.

All decided without her.

Like she wasn't even in the room.

⸻

"Enough."

The word cut clean through everything.

The boss.

Sharp. Final.

"Out."

They hesitated only half a second.

Then left.

Door shutting behind them with a dull, heavy click.

⸻

Silence fell.

Thick.

Private.

Just the two of them.

⸻

She didn't look up.

She let her shoulders shake.

Let her breath hitch.

Let the image settle.

Scared girl.

Useless girl.

Disposable girl.

⸻

Bootsteps approached.

Stopped directly in front of her.

Close enough that she could see the edge of his boots.

Black. Tactical. Dustless.

Clean.

He hadn't run.

He hadn't panicked.

This had all gone exactly as planned.

⸻

"Do you have any value to me?"

The question came calm.

Almost bored.

She swallowed.

"I—I don't know—"

"Look at me."

She didn't.

A hand caught her chin.

Forced it up.

The mask was inches away.

Dark lenses staring back at her.

Empty.

Unreadable.

A gun appeared in her peripheral vision.

Cold metal pressing lightly against her temple.

Not shaking.

Steady.

Professional.

"I'll ask again," he said quietly. "Do you have a reason for me not to kill you?"

Her breath stuttered.

"Please— please don't— I don't know anything— I swear— I just—"

"Wrong answer."

The gun pressed harder.

Her heart pounded. Her pulse filled her ears—

And then—

Something inside her went still, like a switch flipping. Fear draining out. Calculation sliding in.

Because this was wrong. This man wasn't sloppy.

Wasn't cruel for fun. Wasn't talking like someone who actually planned to shoot.

He was fishing, probing and testing. Trying to break her, to make her talk.

Which meant— He needed her alive.

Which meant—She wasn't the one without power here.

He was.

Slowly—Her breathing evened out.

The trembling stopped. Her shoulders relaxed, just slightly enough to notice.

"You understand," he said, irritation creeping in, "that I could pull this trigger right now."

"I understand."

"Then give me a reason."

She tilted her head faintly.

Studying him now, not scared purely curious.

"How would I know?" she asked softly.

A pause.

"If you're going to kill me... then I must not matter."

Silence.

"If you're not... then you already decided."

Another pause.

"Either way... what I say won't change anything, will it?"

The air shifted.

He didn't expect that.

"Stop playing games."

"I'm not."

Her gaze sharpened.

Cold.

"Everything I know about Nikolai Volkov is that he's rich, powerful... and he likes to fuck me."

The gun jerked.

Anger. Finally a reply, she carefully looked from the corner of her eye the small tint of black making her doubts fully disappear.

"There's a bullet with your name on it. Don't test me."

"Then shoot."

The word dropped calmly between them.

Like it meant nothing.

"Shoot."

A long beat. Nothing happened. Her eyebrow lifted slightly, bored, unimpressed and just waiting, waiting for her certainty to be confirmed.

And that's when he snapped.

"God, you're fucking—"

His hand tore the mask off. Fabric dropping away and the world tilted by the familiar eyes, familiar jaw and the familiar scar near his brow.

"—Infuriating."

Older.Harder.But unmistakable.

"...You still suck at interrogations," she said quietly. "Pierce."

He stared at her.

Disbelief mixing with something dangerously close to relief.

"And you," he muttered, voice rougher now, "still suck at playing the victim, Kovács."

Silence.

Heavy.

Electric.

Three years collapsing into one breath.

And just like that—

Katia Orlova disappeared. Camilla Kovács looked back at him.

And neither of them knew whether to smile... or reach for their guns.