Leonid Frost, April 10th, 2025

  Morning light had yet to slip past the heavy velvet curtains as Leonid lay sprawled across the wide bed, half in sleep, half out of habit. One arm hung off the edge of the mattress, a glass of whiskey dangling loosely from his fingers, leaving dark rings on the rim with every slow drip. On the sheets beside him, women tangled with white towels and silk cushions; the air was thick with the scent of tobacco, perfume, and the warm salt of skin. From the ashtray came another smell—bitter, warm—the remnants of a dying cigarette softly crackling. In the corner, the gramophone still whispered jazz, a slow trombone stretching lazily in the background.

  Leonid lifted his glass and drained it without enthusiasm; the whiskey burned his throat, leaving a metallic trace on his tongue. His half-lidded eyes were still too sharp to be fully dulled. One of the women rolled closer, whispering something as her fingers trailed down his neck. He answered in a half-murmur, brushed a lock of her hair over her shoulder, his face softening for a heartbeat.

  His phone buzzed.

  His gaze slid from her eyes to the screen. A message from Hannah:

  I’ll be there in five minutes. Get ready.

  The woman rolled her eyes, but her smile returned when she noticed the small table beside the bed. There, in a dark wooden frame, was a photograph — a woman's face, captured gently in time. Beside it lay a wedding ring, plain and cold.

  She picked up the ring, turned it between her fingers, and teased him with a smirk.

  “Aren't you a little old to keep souvenirs from ex-lovers?"

  Every trace of warmth vanished from Leonid’s expression.

  In one swift motion he tore the ring from her hand, so roughly she flinched. He clenched it in his fist, his jaw tightening.

  “You don’t get to touch that,” he said, cold as frost.

  He rose from the bed, set the empty glass down, and stood motionless, his shoulders swallowed by shadow. He didn’t return the ring right away—held it a second too long, as if the weight of an entire life rested in that small band of metal. At last he set it carefully on the tray beside the framed photograph. Without another word, he grabbed his clothes and headed for the door. Work didn’t wait.

  Leonid opened the passenger door, and Hannah handed him a coffee. He took it with a half-tired, half-mischievous smile, then sat and buckled up. Hannah was already turning the key; the engine hummed alive and the car glided down the street.

  Sipping his coffee, Leonid glanced sideways at her profile. A thin smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

  “You look terrible. What happened yesterday?”

  His tone was joking, but his eyes examined every detail: the messy braid, the dark circles that makeup hadn’t managed to hide.

  Hannah bit the inside of her cheek as she shifted gears in a sharp turn.

  “Try reading the reports sometime.”

  He let out a short laugh through his nose, then looked back at the road, taking another sip.

  “I did. Conclusion: everything went fine. Our little chess player did pretty well.”

  A red light made them stop. Leonid rested his elbow on the door and looked at her again, calm but insistent.

  “Which means something else kept you up last night?"

  “Just work. Didn't have time to sleep."

  Hannah exhaled the line evenly, not willing to open anything deeper, eyes locked on the road ahead. Leonid nodded, taking another sip. His eyes lingered on her cheek for a moment, as if searching for something behind the brief answer, but he didn’t press. He returned to the comfort of routine — small rituals he understood.

  “Did you get any rest yesterday?” she asked, glancing at him just as the light turned green. She added softly, almost as a whisper: “At least as much as you can...”

  He gave a quick smile to himself, humorless. His gaze dropped back to the road.

  “Yeah... as much as I ever do.”

  In the office, Anton sat stiffly, holding his backpack between his legs, his eyes repeatedly drifting to the piles of papers and spreadsheets drowning Hannah’s desk. Leonid walked in with an easy stride, carrying two cups of coffee. He placed one in front of Hannah.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands, as if hiding from another wave of tasks.

  The monitor glowed with endless white columns of numbers, all blurring slightly in her tired eyes. Then the door opened. Vivian stepped inside, and the room instantly filled with her presence. Her voice was quiet, but every syllable struck like an order.

  “We have a mission.”

  Hannah exhaled through the fingers covering her face.

  “What happened now?”

  Leonid stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder and gently kneading it.

  “Don’t worry, boss,” he said with a grin, leaning down to catch her eyes. “Me and the kid will handle it.”

  He kept massaging her shoulder before raising his gaze toward Anton. His eyes flickered with equal parts playfulness and seriousness.

  “Ready for another mission, kid?”

  Anton nearly jumped out of his chair, nodding rapidly. Vivian observed them all in silence. Her eyes swept across them like a scanner. The runic tattoos beneath her eyelids flashed briefly in the glow of the monitor and overhead lights, as if awakening of their own accord. Finally, she lifted her chin and said, cold and absolute:

  “Follow me.”

  The long hall, lit only by the muted glow of the projector, seemed even longer than usual. In the middle of the massive table, a city map was already spread out, and beside it lay a photograph: a golden mask carved with runes, hollow eye sockets staring back with an ominous pull, as if daring you to look too long.

  Leonid lounged in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, the other tapping impatiently against the table. Anton sat tense, perched as if on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide and fixed on the photograph of the mask. Vivian stood tall and still, her gaze slicing between the two of them. Her metal arm caught the projector light and cast sharp reflections across the wall. When she spoke, her voice was crisp and cutting.

  “A relic of rank C went missing from the museum last night. A gold mask.”

  She walked around the table, her heels echoing with each steady step. Stopping behind Anton, she touched the photograph with the tip of her finger.

  “Our trail leads to a private collector. A man with money and connections—but no legal right to possess a relic.”

  Her gaze shifted from Leonid to Anton, lingering on Anton as if weighing his readiness.

  “Your task is to enter his home and retrieve the mask. Quietly. Cleanly. No unnecessary noise.”

  Leonid leaned forward then, a lazy smile curling across his lips, though his eyes gleamed.

  “Quiet and clean. Sounds like a mission made for me.”

  Vivian nodded once.

  “22:00. The address is inside. Get ready.”

  She switched off the projector. The hall fell into near darkness, and the only thing still faintly illuminated was the golden mask on the photograph—hovering over the table as if already defying them.

  Night pressed against the taxi windows, headlights of passing cars sliding across the wet asphalt like streaks of white and red rain. Inside, the cab smelled of cheap lemon air freshener and the stale smoke of a previous passenger.

  Leonid sat sprawled out, taking up the entire space as if it were his personal throne. One arm stretched across the backrest, the other propped under his chin, eyes fixed on the city undulating beyond the glass. The nightlife seemed to lull him rather than wake him.

  Anton, sitting stiffly beside him, clutched his backpack between his knees, gaze darting from Leonid to the driver and back again. Hannah and her demon still echoed in his mind—their lethal precision, her cold discipline. Leonid was her partner, her anchor—yet as Anton watched him now, he looked like someone who belonged more in a casino or smoky bar than on a mission.

  “Leonid…” Anton’s voice was thin, careful. “Why didn’t we take your car?”

  Leonid shifted his eyes from the window to him, without moving his head. The emerald stare cut through him—carrying exhaustion, but also a sharpness that never fully dulled.

  Anton lifted his hands defensively, as if trying to take the question back.

  “I mean, a taxi for a mission — kind of obvious for a covert op...?”

  Leonid stayed silent for a moment. The driver changed gears, the engine shuddering softly, the night pulsing outside.

  Then Leonid smirked, half-sarcastic.

  “Covert means blending in, kid. Biggest rookie mistake? Thinking you must look like a secret agent to be one.”

  He leaned toward him slightly, whispering in a half-serious tone that somehow made things even more confusing.

  “And also… I don’t drive.”

  Anton froze.

  His mind flipped back through everything he’d learned before entering the Amber Directorate. The rule was clear: you needed a driver’s license before you even stepped through their doors. Maybe you didn’t need a car, but the license was mandatory. And with someone like Leonid’s rank, surely he had access to an official vehicle at least.

  “I… thought everyone drives in the agency,” Anton muttered to himself more than to Leonid.

  Leonid finally pulled his gaze from the window, jaw tight but smiling with only one corner of his mouth.

  “When you sleep as little as I do, trust me…” he lifted his coffee and drank the last sip, “…you really shouldn’t be driving.”

  He relaxed again, closing his eyes as if the city lights could no longer reach him.

  Anton swallowed hard. If he was sure of one thing—it was that nothing about Leonid matched the rulebook.

  The taxi slowed, then stopped on a quiet, dark street.

  Across the road stood the mansion—huge, its white stone fa?ade glowing faintly under the moonlight. Iron fences rose high, topped with sharp points gleaming like blades. The gate was closed, flanked by two stone lions illuminated by discreet lights. Through the wide windows behind heavy curtains, the shimmer of crystal chandeliers flickered.

  The garden was sculpted to perfection—shrubs trimmed with geometric precision, paths lined with fine gravel. Everything looked expensive and sterile, not a single leaf out of place.

  Anton stared at his knees, gripping his bag, throat dry.

  “How… how are we planning to get in?” he whispered, watching the shadow of a man near the entrance—likely a guard.

  Leonid calmly opened the taxi door, stepped out, and stretched like he was standing in front of his own apartment, not someone’s fortress. His gaze traced the rooftops and the gate before settling back on Anton.

  “Kid,” he said with a half-smile, “houses like these always have one window the owner thinks is too high for anyone to bother with.”

  The taxi rolled away, leaving them in the quiet street before the imposing mansion. The wind carried the smell of cut grass and cold metal from the gate.

  Leonid tapped Anton’s shoulder and pointed to the side of the house—where the wall rose high and ended in a window cracked open to the night.

  “Your first entry,” he murmured.

  Then he pulled a golden pocket watch from his inner coat pocket. Engraved runes shimmered with a faint silver glow under the moonlight. He brushed his thumb along the cold metal, then clenched the watch tightly in his hand. His voice was low, sharp—like calling something from the other side of the dark.

  “Nyx… darling, I need you.”

  Light spilled from the watch, melting into shadow, shadow thickening into smoke, and then into form. A tall female figure appeared before them.

  Her skin was tinted deep violet, her long hair black as midnight, drifting as though underwater. A silver crescent adorned her forehead, and her eyes glowed with a cold, lifeless sheen. A flowing black gown wrapped her form, dipping low at the chest. In her hand she held a weapon—an enormous spear with a sickle-shaped blade, gleaming and menacing, slicing the night with every subtle movement.

  The atmosphere shifted instantly. The street fell silent, as if someone had drained all sound. Even the wind stilled, and the shadows around the mansion curled toward her, bowing.

  Anton’s eyes widened, torn between awe and fear.

  “This is… your relic?” he whispered.

  “My lady of the dark.”

  Nyx wrapped an arm around Leonid’s, smooth and possessive, pressing her cheek to his. Moonlight shimmered in her eyes.

  “What a beautiful night… full moon, isn’t it?” she whispered, as though speaking to the sky rather than him.

  Leonid leaned slightly toward her, his smile half-ironic, half-sincere—entirely his.

  “Nyx, darling, the night doesn’t start without you.”

  She laughed softly—sweet and eerie, as if it could belong to a child or a demon queen. She lingered against his arm a moment more, then released him and glided toward Anton. Her steps were silent, yet the air trembled around her.

  She bent down, face inches from his. Her pale, gleaming eyes did not blink.

  Anton swallowed.

  “Aren’t you a sweet little thing?” she murmured, pinching his cheek lightly.

  Before he could respond, she had already turned away—her hair playing in the wind like a living shadow—and her gaze found Leonid again.

  “How may I help?”

  Leonid pointed at the guard patrolling near the gate, unaware of what was coming.

  Nyx nodded, a dangerous promise in her smile. Strands of her black hair danced in the moonlight, and her hand tightened around the curved blade of her spear.

  “Understood,” she whispered, excitement shimmering in her voice as if this were her favorite game.

  Leonid slung an arm around Anton’s shoulders, pulling him closer and tilting his head downward so they both had a clear view of the entrance. His breath—smelling of whiskey and smoke—brushed Anton’s ear as he whispered:

  “Watch and learn, chess boy.”

  Anton swallowed hard, eyes wide.

  Ahead of them, Nyx dissolved into a flicker of shadow—only to reappear instantly behind the guard. Her tall silhouette, wrapped in waves of black hair, leaned toward his ear. Her lips moved barely at all, and whatever she whispered was quieter than a breath.

  The guard’s eyes closed at once. His body, drained of all will, slipped into deep sleep and crumpled to the ground without a sound, as if the moonlight itself had laid him down.

  A heartbeat later, Nyx was already at the gate, her shadow merging with the iron bars. Without a single creak, she pushed the doors open as effortlessly as if she were brushing aside her own gown. She turned toward them, her face washed in the cold silver of the moon. A mischievous smile tugged at her lips.

  “Let’s go!” she chimed, cheerful, almost childlike.

  They crossed the yard in silence.

  Nyx glided ahead, her steps leaving no imprint in the grass. Every so often she simply vanished, then reappeared several meters away, bathed in moonlight—as if the night itself were playing hide-and-seek through her form. At one point, Anton rubbed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating.

  Leonid, walking beside him, moved with easy calm, accustomed to this dance of shadows. Unruffled, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat, nudged one out, and lit it. The brief flare of the lighter illuminated the sharp planes of his face, the shadows under his eyes, and the half-smile that never quite left him.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  He drew in smoke, then said casually through the faint cloud:

  “She’s shutting down the alarms and cameras now. Or rather… covering our presence.”

  Anton gaped. The official Amber training never mentioned anything like this. And as he watched Leonid—half in darkness, cigarette smoldering between his fingers—he seemed more serious than Anton had ever perceived him. And yet that lazy, amused smile still lingered on his lips, as if this was nothing more than a moonlit stroll, not a covert mission.

  Nyx stopped beneath the villa’s outer wall. Moonlight pooled over the tall third-floor window above them. Leonid lifted his hand and pointed at it with the cigarette, smoke curling through the air as he muttered:

  “There it is. Our invitation point.”

  Anton looked up and let out a low whistle. He couldn’t fathom how they were supposed to reach it. The walls were smooth, sheer, with spotlights sweeping across patches of the fa?ade. Nyx stepped forward, her hair shimmering like liquid ink in the moonlight. She raised her hand, and from it unfurled a ribbon of shadow—dark as smoke—stretching upward to the window.

  She glanced at Leonid first, her eyes glimmering with playful energy.

  “Shall we go up?”

  Before Anton could even process the question, Nyx wrapped herself around Leonid’s arm—

  and in the same heartbeat, the two of them vanished into a cloud of darkness.

  The next moment, Leonid was standing at the window frame above, leaning casually as though he had climbed there himself.

  Anton jolted, staring at the empty air beside him. Nyx appeared again—this time right in front of him—the scent of cold night and opium drifting with her. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear.

  “Don’t worry, little sugar. I’ll carry you.”

  Before he could respond, darkness wrapped around him, and in the next blink he found himself on the window ledge, his feet slipping—until Leonid grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside.

  “Hope you’re taking notes, kid,” Leonid said, flicking ash out the window as Nyx vanished behind them with a satisfied smile.

  Inside, the villa swallowed them in a silence thicker than the night outside. Only the moonlight, filtering through tall windows, fractured shadows along the walls. The carpet beneath their feet muffled every step, but still carried a heavy scent—a mix of old wood, furniture polish, and something museum-like: dust and age.

  Anton unconsciously held his breath. His eyes were wide as he took in the walls lined with old portraits, and between them glass cases housing sabers, masks, and jewels. Everything felt as though it were watching him—as if the relics themselves knew he didn’t belong.

  Leonid, by contrast, looked perfectly at home. His steps were loose, hands in his pockets. Cigarette smoke trailed behind him, giving the illusion he was part of the shadows themselves. Every so often he glanced at Anton and nodded, urging him silently to keep close.

  Ahead, Nyx moved one quiet step at a time—sometimes fading out of sight, sometimes reappearing in the corners of the room. Her fingertips skimmed across the walls, and whenever she brushed a metal sensor or camera, its red light blinked out, swallowed by darkness.

  Anton felt as if he were walking through a dream—yet every second was real.

  Leonid stopped before a pair of lavish mahogany double doors. He took a slow drag and tilted his head toward Anton.

  “Behind this is the main collection,” he whispered. “And among it… the mask.”

  He pressed the bronze handle lightly, and the doors opened without a creak—trained to keep secrets.

  The chamber beyond was vast, lit only by dim spotlights in the corners, casting muted gold over everything. At its center stood a single glass display case, set apart from the others like an altar in a sanctuary. Inside it lay the mask.

  Its contours were too perfect, almost unnatural—as though it didn’t just depict a face, but remembered one, preserved it in cold gold.

  Anton stopped. His breath thinned, palms sweating. A weight sank into his stomach, as if the mask were staring straight through his skin and into his thoughts.

  “You feel it?” Leonid whispered with a crooked smile. “That’s relic energy. And this is only a C-rank.”

  Nyx materialized behind the case, her fingers gliding across the glass—

  and the surface rippled like water, dissolving at her touch. She glanced at Leonid and whispered, sultry:

  “Go on.”

  Leonid stepped forward, lifted the mask, and lowered it into a black leather bag, wrapping it carefully so it wouldn’t shine or clink. Anton stared blankly, mind fogged, until Leonid clapped him on the shoulder and teased:

  “Come on. Before Nyx’s magic fades.”

  Nyx swept her gaze across the hall one more time, ran her fingertips along the case—which instantly sealed itself, perfect and untouched—and grinned wide like a child who’d won a game.

  They exited the way they came. Nyx opened shadows into paths, carried them back through the window, and the night received them—quiet and calm under the full moon. The guard still slept in the same position, untouched even by the wind.

  Once they stepped through the gate, Nyx curled herself against Leonid’s arm again, fluttering contentedly. Just before she dissolved into the glow of the pocket watch, she whispered in his ear:

  “A perfect night.”

  Leonid snapped the watch shut and slipped it into his pocket, cigarette still glowing between his fingers. Anton looked at him—wanting to ask something about Nyx, about her power—but the words never came.

  Leonid took another drag, then flicked the cigarette into the grass. His heel crushed it to smoldering ash. He turned to Anton, a lazy half-smile on his lips.

  “Here, for the taxi…”

  He pulled a worn leather wallet from his coat, slid out a few bills, and pushed them into Anton’s palm. “Pay up and head home.”

  Anton stared at the crumpled money for a moment, then lifted his gaze, confused.

  “And you?”

  Leonid clapped him on the back—harder than necessary—and stayed standing with his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  His eyes wandered somewhere far beyond the mansion walls—somewhere neither Anton nor the taxi could follow.

  Anton nodded, closed his fist around the cash, and got into the car while Leonid remained in the dim streetlight—a silhouette that looked more like a shadow than a man.

  Leonid knew exactly where he was going.

  The streets of this wealthy district were empty, while the lights of its lavish buildings glowed like cold lanterns strung across the sky. He stopped in front of a luxury building of white stone and entered without hesitation. The elevator lifted him in silence, the mirror inside reflecting his face half-lit by yellow light—eyes where exhaustion and mockery continually intertwined.

  On his floor, he stopped before a pair of heavy white doors, raised his fist, and knocked.

  The sound rolled through the hallway—dull, deep—like a signal that someone impossible to ignore had arrived.

  He waited a minute, maybe two, until the locks clicked softly.

  The door opened, framing a familiar face.

  Hannah.

  Her eyes met his directly, but she didn’t utter a word. Leonid simply stepped forward, passing her shoulder as if the entrance had always belonged to him. The scent of her apartment greeted him—cigarettes, coffee, and faint traces of perfume drifting in the air. Hannah closed the door behind him without a word.

  Leonid walked through the apartment slowly, hands buried deep in his pockets. His gaze swept across the low coffee table in front of the TV—her half-open laptop, stacks of folders and scattered papers, a mug of long-cooled coffee, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, so full it seemed ready to spill. A haze of smoke hovered in the air like a witness to her long nights.

  He stopped, staring at the overfilled ashtray for a moment, one brow lifting.

  “Lots of work again?”

  Hannah brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his as she walked, without meeting his eyes. She nodded and headed to the kitchen.

  “Want coffee?” she asked, her voice neutral, though her hands were already reaching for a cup, opening the hanging cupboard.

  Leonid stepped closer and, with a single easy motion, closed the cupboard door before she could take anything out. Hannah set her hands on the counter for a moment, a deep breath slipping out of her. She rolled her shoulders slightly, as though trying to shake off the weight of the day.

  Then his hands found her shoulders—large fingers and thumbs making calm, slow circles.

  Hannah lifted her head, glanced at him over her shoulder. His face, close to hers beneath the warm kitchen light, watched her more intently than she would have liked.

  “How was the mission?” she asked.

  “Quiet and clean,” he answered simply, with that faint smile that always balanced between joking and serious.

  Hannah nodded, then placed her hands over his, giving them a firm squeeze—enough to tell him that was enough. She turned toward him, and he stepped back a single pace, giving her space. She settled back onto the couch, pulled the laptop to her lap, and her fingers resumed their dance across the keyboard.

  Leonid leaned against the counter, watching her for several seconds as if absorbing every motion, then wandered over. He picked up the overflowing ashtray and moved it toward the trash. Hannah watched him from the corner of her eye, her lips tugging into a faint smirk.

  “Since when do you care about mess?” she teased without looking away from the screen.

  The ashtray clinked lightly when he set it back down.

  “I care when it’s in your apartment.”

  She didn’t answer; her eyes stayed fixed on the bluish glow of the monitor.

  Leonid then placed his hand on the laptop and shut it. The sound was too loud in the hush of the room.

  Hannah’s dark eyes snapped up to his face.

  “Leonid?! I wasn’t done with that spreadsheet,” her voice sharper than she intended.

  His fingers rested on the lid a moment longer before he pulled the laptop aside and sat beside her.

  “Hannah, sleep deprivation is my thing. It looks terrible on you.”

  Through a tiny smile, she punched his shoulder—softer than she meant to. She let out a small laugh under her breath, and he savored that rare crack in her seriousness.

  Then his expression shifted—deeper, more solemn. His gaze moved over the table buried in papers, the boxes of files stacked around, then returned to her.

  “What’s troubling Miss Adler so much?” he asked quietly. “Because this…”

  He gestured at the apartment, at the chaos.

  “…the woman I know would never let it get this far.”

  Hannah grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the table, turned it in her hand, then tapped it twice against the wood. Empty. She sighed softly and set it down. Leonid shook his head, pulled his own pack from his coat pocket, and pressed it into her hand.

  She placed a cigarette between her lips, and he was already there—the metallic click of his lighter sounded as he opened it, the flame blooming and lighting his eyes up close as he leaned in to spark hers. Hannah inhaled, then gave him a short, almost imperceptible glance. Leonid lit his own.

  For a few moments smoke coiled around them in silence, the yellowish bulbs mixing with the gray haze.

  “I was looking at her photos again,” Hannah said, the smoke gliding from her lips—her words landing like a confession stored up long before.

  Leonid gave no reply. He only listened, drawing slow breaths from his cigarette.

  “That librarian said I look like her,” she went on, her gaze drifting toward the wall, lost. “I didn’t even get to introduce myself—he already knew who I was.”

  She drew her knees close to her chest, arms wrapping around them.

  Small, fragile like that, she seemed younger than she ever allowed herself to appear.

  “No matter how long I stare at her pictures, I can't remember anything. I'm staring at a stranger's face that, on top of everything, looks exactly like the one I see in the mirror.”

  Leonid was still silent, though his green eyes never left her.

  “I know Kai took all those memories,” she whispered, her voice briefly faltering.

  “But I still keep hoping that if I look long enough, somehow I'll remember her. Her words. Her voice. The two of us.”

  She lowered her knees, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray—

  and in that moment Leonid reached out. His hand rested on her knee, his fingers making slow circles. Then he withdrew his hand, took one last drag, and crushed his cigarette in the tray. As the metallic hiss of ash faded, he spoke—flat, emotionless:

  “And I keep hoping that if I squeeze my wedding ring hard enough, Nyx will give me my wife back.”

  Hannah looked at him then, fully—her eyes gentler now. She shifted closer, leaning into the pillow beside him.

  “So I keep asking myself,” he continued, voice dropping low, “why I ever signed that damned contract.”

  Hannah nodded in quiet understanding, then reached out.

  Her fingers brushed along the base of his ring finger—where the faint ghost of a wedding band still lingered. Leonid’s hand trembled under her touch.

  He took her hand, held it briefly, then let go.

  He turned to the laptop, opened it, and stared at the flood of tables on the screen.

  “Go to sleep. I’ll finish this for you.”

  “Leonid, absolutely not!”

  Hannah straightened, her voice firm with resistance.

  But he was already tapping at the keyboard, a playful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m not sleeping anyway. And you need rest.”

  She hesitated—too tired to argue further. She stepped over his legs and headed for the bedroom.

  “Thank you.”

  He watched her as her footsteps disappeared behind the doorway.

  He nodded slowly.

  “Good night, Hannah,” he murmured to himself, then lowered his eyes to the glow of the screen as smoke drifted lazily around his face.

  Isaac Phoenix, April 10, 2025

  The night had been long, and the engine felt the consequences. Isaac rode his Ninja through the narrow streets of the industrial district, neon signs flashing across his helmet like brief bursts of light. When he turned behind a corner, he heard the familiar sound of metal and sparks—Ivy’s auto shop never slept.

  He parked in front of the gate, took off his helmet, and set it on the tank. His dark eyes lifted to the faded sign above the entrance—letters peeled and worn, but still stubbornly readable. He pulled his hood over his head and stepped inside, tossing his hair out of his face.

  The smell of oil, gasoline, and hot iron hit him immediately. Tools were scattered across the workbench—wrenches, screws, half-drunk cans of energy drink. Ivy was kneeling beside the chassis of an old car, sparks flying under her hand as she welded. Her leather apron was splattered with stains, her hair clipped back carelessly, a few strands escaping. Isaac stopped right behind her, leaned against the wall, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket.

  “Ivy, I’ve got a problem,” he said at last—his voice rough, but the tone almost teasing.

  Ivy lowered her welding mask, looked up, and her eyes lit for a moment in the dark.

  “With the bike or in your head?”

  Then she rose from the floor, wiping grease off her hands on the rag hanging from her belt. Only then did she notice the marks on Isaac’s face—the bruises that had faded but left traces, thin red lines across his cheekbone and above his brow. Her dark eyes softened for a second. She stepped closer, her finger trembling as it moved toward his cheek—but he sharply turned his head away, chin angled to the side.

  “What happened, Isaac?” she asked quietly, but she didn’t pull her hand back right away.

  He took his lighter from his pocket and moved to light up. Ivy snatched the lighter out of his hand with a practiced motion before he could raise it.

  “No smoking in here, in case you forgot,” she said strictly.

  Isaac exhaled deeply, like someone defeated, shoved both hands into his hoodie pockets, and followed her. Ivy walked up to his Ninja, ran her hand over the tank, and started inspecting it. She lifted the seat, tugged at the cables, then bent to peer deeper into the mechanics. For a few minutes, there was only the clatter of her tools against metal. When she straightened and wiped her hands on the rag, she turned to him, looked him up and down, and shook her head with a half-smile.

  “You’re more wrecked than the bike.”

  Isaac twisted his mouth into a half-smile, but his eyes stayed dark and tired.

  “Classic brother stuff—nothing to worry about,” he finally said.

  Ivy narrowed her eyes, stepping closer again. “Kilian did that to you?”

  He immediately looked away, spun on his heel, and dropped into a chair in the corner, hands still buried in his pockets. His broad shoulders were hunched, like he was carrying more than he wanted to admit.

  “He wouldn’t do it without a reason… what did you do, Isaac?”

  Isaac looked at her from under his lashes—darkness in his eyes cut with a sliver of irony. He pulled his hands from his pockets and lifted them theatrically into the air.

  “Why do you immediately take his side?!”

  Ivy rolled her eyes, leaned her hip against the workbench, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. Your bike’s fine. Go do something useful.”

  In the chair, Isaac leaned back, rubbed a hand over his face, and stared up at the shop ceiling in silence. The smoke of a cigarette he never lit still lingered in his mind. He sat there a few more moments, his eyes roaming the workshop. Finally, he pushed himself up and pulled the hood tighter over his face.

  “I’ve got a cleanup tonight anyway.”

  His voice was quiet, but it carried a dry coldness that could make even walls go rigid.

  Ivy stayed by the bench, eyes locked on him. She dipped her chin slightly and spoke in a whisper.

  “Good luck.”

  He nodded once, without a smile, and headed for the door. The sound of his footsteps dissolved into the echo of metal tools and the smell of oil as he approached the Ninja, leaving Ivy behind in the workshop’s silence.

  Isaac’s Ninja cut through the streets like a shadow, the engine growling deep and weary, but carrying him without a single hitch. When he parked, he took off his helmet and rested it against the seat, lit a cigarette, and let the smoke flicker in front of his eyes. Across the street, a place blazed with fake luxury—glass display windows, a few glowing signs, and inside, a jukebox song and drunken laughter. Isaac shifted the cigarette to the corner of his mouth and stepped in. The door slammed behind him; the bell above the entrance announced his presence. Heads at the tables turned, then quickly dropped back into glasses and cards.

  He walked straight to the bar, wordless. The bartender wiped the counter with a rag and dared to speak.

  “Evening… what’ll it be?”

  Isaac crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, then yanked it toward himself and slammed it on the bar hard enough to make the glass tremble.

  “You’re closing early tonight.”

  The bartender froze, tried to smile—then the smile died when Isaac lifted his jacket and showed the gun at his waistband.

  “I said you’re closing.”

  Laughter and music at the tables fell silent. People began gathering their things, shuffling uncertainly toward the exit. Isaac watched each of them slowly, patiently, until only he and the bartender remained.

  “The boss owes. And when the boss owes, he pays in blood or in walls.”

  He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, opened it, and drank straight from the neck. Then he hurled the bottle into the wall behind the bar—glass exploded, and the sharp smell of alcohol flooded the room.

  The bartender trembled, frozen in place, sweat sliding down his temples.

  Isaac smiled—a short, dark smile.

  “Tell him I was here. And tell him next time I’m coming to count bones, not bottles.”

  He turned and left. The door slammed, and the bell rang again—this time sounding like a cold sentence.

  Outside, Isaac stood in front of the place and checked his watch—just after ten. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes, inhaled deeply, and climbed onto his Ninja. The engine roared—sharp, slicing through the street’s quiet. Asphalt became a black film sliding under the wheels, cold wind striking his body as he rode. City lights streaked across his visor—yellow lamps and red neon reflections in endless lines.

  Somewhere on the boulevard, as he passed a row of taxis, one watched him from inside—Anton. Through the glass he saw only a dark silhouette with a black helmet, while Leonid kept talking, noticing nothing. Isaac didn’t notice them; he twisted the throttle and, with a deafening howl, shot past the taxi and vanished down the next avenue.

  His route led into a richer part of the city, where glass buildings and elite restaurants shone like stage sets. One of Kilian’s establishments was there—a restaurant and hotel for gentlemen in expensive suits, where politics and the mafia were negotiated in the same breath. Hotel Cube.

  Isaac parked his Ninja a street down, removed his helmet, and ran his fingers through his hair.

  The heavy glass doors of the restaurant opened with a soft sound, and the warmth inside wrapped around him. The scents of fine wine, spices, and roasted fish mixed with the discreet murmur of guests and the chime of crystal glasses. The hostesses recognized him instantly, smiling and nodding as they guided him through the space.

  “Good evening, Mr. Phoenix. As always, your table is ready,” one of them said, stepping aside to clear his way to the corner where his place waited.

  The corner—shielded from prying eyes—was already prepared: a perfectly smooth tablecloth, a candle burning steadily, a glass of whiskey already poured, and another menu beside it. He thanked her, slipped off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, then sat down. For a few moments, he simply stared at the glass—the golden liquid shimmering beneath the lamplight.

  He sighed, his gaze dropping to the ring around his index finger. He turned it once between his joints, then set his hand on the table and murmured quietly:

  “Karma, it's time.”

  The air trembled, and she appeared across from him. Cheerful as always, her hair spilled over her shoulders in white–red waves, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Without waiting for anything, she snatched the menu and flipped through it with quick fingers, a playful smile dancing across her face.

  “Oh, look at this, they really put effort into the menu tonight,” she said, eyes locked on the page.

  Isaac simply lifted his glass, took a short sip, and leaned back in his seat. As she folded and unfolded the pages before her, he watched her in silence, his face expressionless—but in his eyes, a shadow shimmered, the kind only he could feel.

  Karma browsed the menu like a child flipping through a picture book, eyes hopping over the lines. And before the waiter could ask anything, she began ordering.

  “This… and this… and of course that thing with the truffles… Ah, and bring the butter-and-lemon fish. And those little meat rolls—three portions. Salad, naturally, and—oh, dessert, write down the pistachio ice cream immediately.”

  The waiter wrote as if following a military dictation, and soon the table began to fill, fit for an emperor’s feast.

  Long porcelain platters held the meats: beef in red wine, lamb with spices, smoked ribs releasing an aroma that spread through the whole restaurant. Bowls of rich sauces—butter, pepper, garlic, mustard, truffle—sent waves of fragrance into the air. Salads crackled under forks, dressings of olive oil and pomegranate glistening on top. In the center, a bowl of pasta dusted generously with parmesan, and beside it small dishes of marinated vegetables, like bright colors on a painter’s palette.

  Karma ate as though each bite revealed a new world. She would close her eyes when she tasted something, letting the flavor flood her whole body, each time with a soft sigh of pleasure.

  Isaac, meanwhile, sat back in silence—cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, whiskey in hand. He watched her eat as the candlelight shaped his features—sharp, solemn, like he was sitting at a quiet funeral instead of a dinner table.

  At last, when the platters were half-empty and the air thick with wine and butter, dessert arrived. Green pistachio ice cream served in a crystal cup, topped with a mint leaf and a thin wafer. Karma clapped her hands excitedly and leaned toward it as if it were a bowl of treasure.

  “Try some ice cream, Isaac. It’s wonderful.”

  Karma spoke with a spoon already pointed toward him, her eyes glinting in playful challenge.

  Isaac rolled his eyes and pulled his whiskey glass closer.

  “You’re a real demon. Per our contract, you took away my sense of taste. What exactly am I supposed to ‘try’?”

  His voice was rough, each word slow, while the cigarette smoke curled upward in the candle’s glow. Karma paused, looked at the spoon in her hand, then nodded as if she’d just remembered.

  “Yes… I did ask for that.”

  She ran her tongue across her lips and added with a lush smile:

  “But the most important clause was this weekly dinner. On your tab, of course.”

  The spoon sank again into the ice cream, the green crystals shimmering in the cold light, and she slowly placed the bite on her tongue. Her eyes closed as if she were listening to a symphony; a blissful smile broke across her face, her shoulders relaxing in pure contentment.

  Isaac turned his gaze away, staring thoughtfully through the window into the night—but his hand moved on its own. He reached out and stroked her head, briefly and almost roughly, yet carefully, exactly like an older brother indulging a spoiled child.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he muttered, the faintest smile touching the corner of his mouth.

  The crystal spoon clinked against the rim of the glass. Karma leaned toward him, cheeks tinged pink from wine and food, shadows dancing across her face.