Gabriel Parker, April 20th, 2025

  The moon stood high in the sky, washing the city’s gray outlines in light, but not a single star was visible—smothered by the smoke rising from industrial plants. The street Gabriel Parker walked down was half-empty; the echo of his footsteps faded into the distance. His hands were deep in his pockets, his head slightly bowed—like a man in no hurry, but with a clear destination.

  Two men in black stepped out of a dark alley. One sized him up immediately, his gaze catching on the tattoos peeking out from under Gabriel’s sleeves.

  “Nice ink,” he said with a mocking edge.

  Gabriel flicked him a sideways look, but didn’t stop. He kept his pace—until the second man cut him off, subtly spreading his jacket to reveal the pistol hidden beneath.

  “Mr. Parker,” he said softly, almost polite, “if you’d be so kind as to come with us.”

  For a moment, it looked like Gabriel obeyed. He stopped, then turned his back to them and raised both hands in the air, as if surrendering.

  And then—the gold watch on his wrist flared with runes.

  A short burst of light split the darkness. The two men in black instinctively shielded their eyes, and when the blindness passed, they laughed—certain of their advantage. One of them had already pressed his gun to the back of Gabriel’s head, finger on the trigger.

  But before he could pull it, he felt heat—a thin cut at his throat, blood streaming down.

  His expression dimmed in startled disbelief as he collapsed without a word.

  The other didn’t even have time to raise his pistol; the same silent blade had already judged him.

  The watch flashed once more—briefly—then went quiet, leaving no trace that anything had happened.

  Gabriel slowly lowered his hands back into his pockets, stepped over the bodies as if they were nothing but obstacles in his path, and continued down the street—calm, steady, like a man carrying no burden at all.

  Leonid Frost, April 21st, 2025

  The living room was dim, curtains drawn; pale late-morning light barely seeped through. On the coffee table in front of the armchair sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and several unopened letters. The stale air hung heavy with tobacco and alcohol.

  Leonid sat on the edge of the armchair, shirtless. His shoulder was wrapped in a bandage, but a bloodstain had already bled through the gauze. With one hand, he reached for scissors to cut off the old dressing. The motion was heavy, but his face didn’t show pain—only irritation, as if it annoyed him that his body dared to fail him.

  He dropped the bloody bandage into the trash beside him, poured himself a glass of whiskey, took a swallow, and only then continued. He unrolled a fresh sterile wrap, pressed it to the wound, tightening it firmly—like he was proving to himself he still had control.

  For a moment he lifted his gaze to the mirror on the wall. His eyes were cloudy from lack of sleep, the shadows beneath them dark. He dragged a palm over his beard and muttered under his breath.

  “Just a few more days…”

  His phone rang on the table, but he didn’t even look. He simply drew on his cigarette, closed his eyes, and sank back into the armchair.

  He remained there, sprawled out, when he heard footsteps approaching the living room. The door opened and Hannah walked in—calm and decisive, like the apartment belonged to her.

  Relief passed over his face for a split second. He covered his eyes with his hand and muttered,

  “You could call ahead, you know.”

  “I did. You just didn’t answer,” she shot back, already pulling the curtains aside and opening a window to let fresh air in.

  Leonid stayed quiet, watching her move through the room. Hannah emptied the overflowing ashtray, gathered empty cigarette packs, carried glasses into the kitchen—clearing the barricades he’d built around himself.

  Only then did he shift, reaching for his drink—

  but her hand was faster.

  She placed the glass into his palm, and with her other hand gently pushed him back by his healthy shoulder into the armchair. Her voice was soft, but firm.

  “How are you?”

  He took a sip, then let a half-smile—half-joke—show.

  “Ladies don’t like when I can’t use my right arm. That part’s been rough.”

  Hannah stopped, a pillow from the other armchair in her hands. Instead of handing it to him, she threw it straight into his chest.

  “Idiot,” she said—yet the corner of her mouth lifted, her eyes flickering between worry and warmth.

  She moved into the kitchen, separated from the living room only by the bar counter. She opened the upper cabinets one by one—glasses, bottles, alcohol. Nothing else.

  “Did I walk into an apartment or a bar? Where’s the coffee?” she muttered, closing a cabinet with an irritated snap.

  She opened the fridge. Inside: only silence and cold. A few bottles. More alcohol.

  Her brows knit as she scanned the kitchen—delivery bags and takeout boxes scattered everywhere. Without a word, she started stuffing everything into trash bags.

  At first Leonid said nothing. He lit another cigarette and watched her from the corner of his eye, smoke curling over his shoulder. Then his gaze slid to the clock on the wall, and over the counter he caught Hannah’s figure—her, relentless, collecting the pieces of the mess.

  “Don’t you have work?” he asked, voice rough—more habit than genuine interest.

  Hannah didn’t stop. She only shook her head as she tied off the trash bag.

  “Day off,” she said evenly.

  She didn’t look at him then either—but when she finished, she walked straight into his bedroom. A few seconds later she returned carrying a clean white shirt. She draped it over the back of his armchair, right beside him.

  “Let's get some fresh air.”

  Leonid stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and looked from her to the shirt. Something lingered at the corner of his mouth—an awareness that she was right, and an equally strong desire to stay exactly where he was.

  He weighed it for a few seconds… then took the shirt from the armchair.

  For a moment he just held it, as if measuring what that movement would cost him. Finally he tried to pull it on—but the wound cut through him the instant he lifted his arm. He froze, clenched his teeth, then continued slowly, forcing it.

  Hannah stood by the counter, watching in silence. She didn’t step in. She didn’t offer help. But her eyes said she could, at any second, grab the fabric and finish it for him.

  Still, she let him fight it himself.

  At last he managed to pull the shirt on fully. He dropped his shoulders, exhaled hard, then grabbed his coat from the hook.

  Hannah nodded—like that was exactly what she wanted confirmed: that she’d pulled him out of the fog, at least one step.

  Without another word, they headed for the door together.

  The morning was alive. Cars thundered down the boulevard, people in suits and coats rushed toward offices, while mothers with children and elderly couples sought a gentler pace. The city breathed in its usual chaotic rhythm.

  Leonid and Hannah walked side by side, unhurried, their shadows crossing and uncrossing over the pavement. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped it lightly, pulled one out and placed it between his lips.

  “Pick me up tomorrow by car,” he muttered while reaching for his lighter.

  Hannah glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

  “Doctor’s check?”

  He offered her the cigarette, and after a moment of hesitation she took one. He leaned in and lit it for her. Only then did he answer, through the smoke:

  “I meant for work.”

  She exhaled slowly, shaking her head.

  “The doctor said three weeks of rest. It’s been ten days.”

  Leonid laughed, waving the cigarette in his hand dismissively.

  “Sick leave pays less. I need money.”

  “Oh,” Hannah shot back with a faint smile, mirroring his tone, “spent it all on women and alcohol already?”

  For a moment, both of them laughed—his laugh deep and husky, hers soft, short, but sincere.

  They continued walking down the street, the city noise pouring around them. When they reached a nearby café, both of them instinctively headed for the door at the same time.

  The café was half-empty, the smell of roasted coffee and warm bread mingling with the quiet of the morning, occasionally cut by the clinking of cups and murmured conversations from a pair of people in the corner. Hannah and Leonid sat across from each other by the window. Sunlight slipped through the glass, falling across his shoulder as he leaned over his cup, slipping a third sugar cube in and stirring. Hannah watched the precise, steady movements of his fingers despite the bandages.

  He broke the silence first.

  “I read the Pearl report…” his voice was flat, but his gaze sharp. “So I’m curious… how exactly did the relic fall into the sea?”

  Hannah lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip without looking at him. As she lowered the cup she answered, just as evenly:

  “Since when do you read reports?”

  He shook his head, flinching slightly when his bandaged arm fumbled with the cup. He paused, then took a swallow anyway.

  “Should I ask our little chess prodigy, then?”

  Hannah didn’t answer immediately. She sat there, feeling his gaze press between her shoulder blades. She took another calm sip before lowering the cup, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. Her tone was calm, but cold.

  “The report says everything it needs to.”

  In that second, the weight between them thickened—trust and suspicion, and all the unsaid sentences strung between. He held her gaze for another heartbeat, then leaned back in his chair, blowing out smoke from the cigarette he had finally managed to light.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden voice of a news reporter on the television behind the counter. The sound spread through the café, and Hannah and Leonid simultaneously lifted their eyes toward the screen.

  “…Last night, two individuals believed to be linked to organized crime were found murdered in the industrial zone. Early reports suggest members of the activist order may be responsible…”

  The image showed police tape, the flashing lights of patrol cars, and black body bags on the sidewalk.

  Leonid chuckled around a tired, cynical breath of smoke.

  “Activists against relics… who use relics. Irony at its finest.”

  Hannah shrugged lightly, her fingers wrapped around her coffee cup.

  “Most of them don’t have relics. A few hold them illegally. They’re not our biggest concern.”

  He nodded, but his gaze lingered on the screen a moment longer than necessary.

  “Maybe…” he murmured, taking another sip. “But all I know is we’ve had more missions involving them this past year than ever before. And I don’t like where that leads.”

  Hannah looked at the screen as well, something cold flickering in her eyes—a familiar unease only someone from Amber would recognize. She muttered, almost to herself:

  “Yeah… neither do I.”

  The silence that followed was heavier than before—not belonging to them or the café, but to the world outside, shifting in ways neither of them could yet see.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Killian Phoenix – April 21, 2025

  In the tall mafia headquarters building, the conference hall was lit by harsh white neon lights. Chairs were arranged in perfect rows, and on the front wall a massive board stood blank, waiting for the first marks of fate. Mafia members of different ranks and levels of experience sat in silence—some nervously tapping their fingers against the table, others leaning back in their chairs, but all carrying the same understanding:

  Someone was about to enter… someone you never look in the eyes without a reason.

  The doors opened, and Killian Phoenix stepped into the room.

  His authority entered a moment before he did; the space emptied of whispers in an instant. His long black coat trailed behind him like a shadow, and in his hand he carried three photographs. The sound of his shoes on the tiled floor echoed like the steady ticking of a clock.

  He approached the board with slow, deliberate steps. Every movement was precise, controlled. He placed the first photograph on the board with a magnet.

  “Mihail Sterling.”

  Then the second.

  “Nikka Parker.”

  And the last.

  “Gabriel Parker.”

  The room breathed quietly, the only sound the squeak of the marker as Killian wrote names beneath each picture. His handwriting was cold, uniform, perfectly measured.

  “These three,” he said with a calm, deep voice, “carry special bounties on their heads.”

  No one dared interrupt. Killian set the marker down, clasped his hands behind his back, and slowly walked down the rows of tables. His gaze cut through the faces one by one, as if he were weighing the worth of each soul.

  “They belong to the activist order,” he continued.

  His voice remained composed, but an unspoken warning coiled behind it.

  “All of them wield strong relics while fighting for their…” He paused, as if searching for the right word, his eyes glinting with irony. “…ideology.”

  He turned back toward the board.

  “And while the bounty over them is… tempting,”

  His gaze lingered on the photographs, as if he could already see the price tags dancing above them,

  “do not end up on the news. Like the ones you watched this morning.”

  He stepped closer to Gabriel’s photograph. His fingertips brushed the glossy surface, and his next words fell like ice water.

  “This one holds an S+ rank relic.”

  A heavy silence swept through the room. Breaths grew louder, some men swallowed hard, others lowered their gazes. Killian let the fear settle in—let it work for him. Then he clapped his hands once, the sharp sound cracking through the hall like a gunshot.

  “If everything is clear, you’ll receive specific orders from your superiors.”

  He paused. His gaze swept the room one last time—sharp, piercing, as if engraving judgments directly into the minds of those gathered.

  “And do not do anything… foolish.”

  His words hung in the air like gunpowder smoke.

  He remained still as chairs scraped against the floor and men in black suits filed out through the heavy doors. His eyes followed each face in cold calculation, as though writing silent verdicts in an invisible book only he could read.

  The fluorescent lights above were too bright, casting deep shadows beneath the eyes of the remaining few. Killian, however, didn’t blink. He stood rooted in his black coat, which draped around him like a living shadow—heavier than the silence left behind as the room emptied.

  Only when the last man left—when the doors creaked and closed—did the hall become an enormous box of hollow quiet.

  Killian exhaled through his nose, long and steady, like a soldier who survived yet another battle. Only then did he reach for his phone. The glow of the screen lit his face; his pale eyes gleamed like ice beneath the neon.

  His fingers slid across the contacts, settling on a familiar name. He pressed call. The ring lasted only a moment before a voice answered—recognizable, slightly rough, but calm.

  “Killian.”

  As if the atmosphere itself shifted, the hardness in Killian’s shoulders loosened, and a brief warmth crossed his face—something no one in this building would ever believe he possessed.

  “Little brother,” he said, his voice carrying a softness reserved for only one person. “Meet me later. We have business.”

  The line stayed silent. Killian continued anyway—steady, authoritative.

  “See you at 22:00.”

  He ended the call without waiting for a reply. The phone slid back into his coat pocket as he walked toward the exit. The echo of his footsteps was measured, controlled. As he passed the board—with the faces and names still pinned—he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

  At the doorway, he paused. Through the window, the city sprawled beneath the night—streetlamps and neon lights flickering against the darkness. He took a deep breath, and as the shadow of his coat spilled across the hallway floor, his face returned to the mask of a cold professional.

  Killian leaned against his matte-grey Hayabusa, the monstrous machine’s cold metal swallowing the streetlight, making it look like a predator crouched in the dark. His black helmet rested on the seat. In one hand he held it lightly; in the other, he flicked his golden lighter open and shut.

  Every time the flame sparked, blue fire illuminated the runes engraved across his fingers, reflecting in his eyes like the glow of something ancient lurking beneath the surface of the man.

  In that quiet dance of flame and shadow, he looked less like a criminal and more like a soldier on a rare moment of peace—though he was neither at peace nor idle. He was waiting. For his brother.

  The street was silent, save for the occasional distant hum of tires.

  And then—like a bullet piercing the calm—the roar of an engine shattered the quiet.

  Isaac’s Ninja shot through the darkness and screeched to a stop beside the Hayabusa. The engine growled a few seconds longer as Isaac planted his boots on the asphalt and removed his helmet. Killian watched him without moving—a gaze that held equal parts tenderness and the weight of responsibility.

  Neither spoke at first.

  Isaac knew his brother never rushed words; he always weighed them as carefully as he weighed every risk in his life.

  Finally, Killian snapped the lighter shut and tucked it into his pocket. When he spoke, his voice carried command as naturally as breath.

  “We have a short visit tonight.”

  He didn’t pause. He didn’t need to. Every syllable fell heavy, certain.

  “And while we’re at it, we’ll recover the relic that bastard stole from the mafia.”

  Isaac nodded once. No questions, no hesitation—wasting words would have been pointless.

  Killian swung a leg over his Hayabusa, pulled on his helmet, and twisted the throttle. The engine exploded into the night—deep, dangerous, like a storm rolling in. Isaac followed an instant later, the Ninja roaring behind him.

  Two brothers.

  Two shadows.

  Riding in the same direction—ready to write another chapter in the bloodstained book of the mafia.

  Gabriel Parker — April 21, 2025

  Gabriel walked through the wealthy district, a street that smelled of expensive perfume and polished stone. The golden watch on his wrist ticked toward 21:30, every sound soft and precise, like a countdown before a storm.

  He stopped in front of a tall metal gate.

  The runes on his watch flared with a cold golden gleam, and for a moment it seemed the entire fence shuddered under that light. Seconds later, the gate slid open on its own, silent, as if the whole estate bowed to him.

  His footsteps echoed across the tiled courtyard as he walked toward the house—calm, unhurried—yet he didn’t make it far. Two guards emerged from the shadows, raised their guns, and shouted.

  “Private property! Turn around immediately!”

  Gabriel didn’t answer.

  His face stayed expressionless, gaze lowered a few meters ahead of his shoes, and his walk didn’t slow.

  The guards opened fire—a rain of bullets tore through the air, swallowing the silence. To their eyes, it looked as if they unloaded an entire magazine into him… but not a single bullet touched his body.

  Panic seized them as they frantically reloaded. They didn’t even manage to raise their weapons again—because in the next blink, their throats were open. Blood burst upward like a dark flower. Their bodies collapsed, and Gabriel continued walking as if stepping over dry leaves, not corpses.

  The massive front door opened on its own as he approached.

  The alarm was already howling, red lights pulsing across the walls, and from upstairs came shouts and hurried footsteps. The wealthy man whose name was on the hit list burst from the bedroom with several bodyguards, racing toward the stairway.

  They didn’t even see him.

  Their throats bloomed open in the same breath. Bodies tumbled down the stairs, blood spreading like a red carpet.

  Gabriel kept walking toward the study. He stopped in front of a dark walnut desk and opened drawers as if he already knew exactly where to look. His gloved fingers brushed against a small box. When he opened it, inside—nested in velvet—lay a relic: an old talisman, entwined with runes that shimmered as though breathing.

  He took it, closed his fist around it, and slipped it into his pocket.

  For a moment his eyes closed, reflecting a mix of bitterness and triumph—a disgust for the world that had shaped him, and a quiet satisfaction for reaching his goal yet again.

  Without a word, he turned and walked back out of the house, which had already become a tomb.

  The watch on his wrist continued ticking its relentless rhythm.

  Killian & Isaac Phoenix

  Engines roared as they reached the estate. Two silhouettes rolled to a stop in front of the tall metal gate.

  The gate—supposed to be locked, guarded—stood wide open, creaking softly in the wind.

  Killian was first to plant his foot on the pavement. He looked at the emptiness ahead and shook his head. Isaac parked beside him, removed his helmet, and both of them drew their guns.

  They walked forward slowly, senses sharpened to their limit—every whisper of wind, every quiver of shadow could have meant a bullet.

  The first bodies appeared as soon as they stepped onto the courtyard tiles. Two guards lay in pools of blood, their throats opened cleanly, blood still running down the stone in dark streaks.

  Isaac crouched beside them, pressing his fingers to the wound. The metallic scent hit him hard.

  “Still warm,” he said, staring at the blood on his fingertips.

  Killian turned his head, the frost-blue eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Did you say something?”

  Isaac looked at him and shook his head. Standing, he raised his gun again, shoulders tense and ready.

  “It happened recently. Half an hour… an hour tops.”

  Killian nodded slowly, like a judge confirming a verdict. He holstered his gun without hurry and looked at the house—the wide-open doors, the lights still burning inside.

  “Check the garage,” he said calmly, the tone of someone used to being obeyed without question.

  Isaac veered left, his shadow disappearing among the cars while his eyes scanned for signs of life.

  He found none.

  Only more corpses. Bodyguards cut open like paper dolls, blood dripping down the fenders of luxury cars.

  Killian entered the house.

  The hallways smelled of smoke, expensive liquor… and blood. Bodies lay discarded like old rags. On the staircase that led to the back exit, a scene awaited him—the wealthy man lay sprawled across the carpet, throat open, eyes frozen toward the ceiling in the shock of his final breath.

  Isaac joined him seconds later. The two brothers stood over the corpse, silent. Just watching.

  Killian slowly drew a cigar from his inner pocket and lit it. Smoke spread through the room as he spoke.

  “Someone did our job for us.”

  Isaac placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply.

  “And the relic?”

  Killian shook his head—coldly, without a single extra crease in his expression.

  “They took that too.”

  Smoke drifted around them, filling the room with the scent of tobacco and death. Neither spoke—the silence itself acknowledged that whoever did this wasn’t just fast.

  They knew exactly what they were doing.

  Isaac rose and looked again at the clean slashes, the perfect cuts.

  Not the work of a simple knife… and not a human hand.

  The cigarette slipped from his lips as he muttered:

  “The cuts are too clean… this is a demon’s work, not a human’s.”

  Killian didn’t answer. He simply nodded once and turned, his heavy steps echoing as he left the house. Isaac followed.

  Their silhouettes faded from the room filled with corpses, the smell of blood mixing with drifting smoke.

  Outside by the motorcycles, both men paused for a moment.

  Killian pulled on his gloves, took his helmet, and just before lowering the visor, said in a rough tone:

  “The same cuts were found this morning on two of ours.”

  Isaac froze, eyes locking on his brother.

  “Activists?”

  Killian was already lowering the visor. His lips barely moved, but the word hit harder than a gunshot.

  “Activists.”

  Their engines thundered into the night, leaving behind an estate full of the dead—yet its silence spoke even louder:

  The war between the mafia and the Activists had only just begun.

  Leonid Frost & Hannah Adler

  Morning in the café had turned into night in a nearby bar. Walls of dark oak soaked in cigarette smoke and whispered conversations, while the scent of spilled beer mixed with the smell of aged furniture. A handful of people sat scattered around — a group of young men talking loudly and laughing, an old man drinking alone in the corner, staring into his glass as if searching for lost years inside it.

  At the bar sat Hannah and Leonid.

  His hand wrapped firmly around a glass of whiskey, and next to it rested Hannah’s glass of wine — though it was certainly not their first drink that night. Her usually pale cheeks were flushed with a warm shade of pink, and her eyes glimmered as if they had caught the glow of early sunlight on calm water. For moments at a time she looked younger, softer, more relaxed than anyone from Amber would ever expect of her.

  Leonid carried his own traces of alcohol — a faint heat in his cheeks, a looseness at the corner of his lips. But his eyes remained clear.

  Alcohol could never blur his thoughts, nor slow the rhythm in his chest.

  That was part of the deal with Nyx — resistance to psychoactive substances.

  While time in the bar flowed lazily, the two of them seemed to occupy their own private stage.

  “The waiters started avoiding him,” Hannah said through laughter, lifting her glass of wine to hide her smile, almost embarrassed by how funny she found it.

  Leonid shook his head, let out a short laugh, then a low, gravelly exhale as he took another sip of whiskey.

  “I believe it. John Everest is their worst nightmare. Instead of a tip, they get a nervous breakdown.”

  Hannah burst into quick laughter, drained the last of her wine, and set the glass down on the counter a bit too hard — the ring of glass against wood echoed sharply. Her face, rosy with alcohol, softened the seriousness that flickered across it when her brows drew together.

  “Hey, hey, we were on a mission,” she protested half joking, half defensive, as if she didn’t actually owe him an explanation.

  Leonid reached for his pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and offered it to her. When she took it, he leaned closer to light it for her — the flame illuminated her features, and she held his gaze for a brief second before drawing in smoke. Only then did he light his own.

  Hannah lifted her hand, about to order another round — but his hand came down gently yet firmly over hers, pressing it back to the counter. With his other hand he motioned to the bartender, a clear signal that there would be no more drinks.

  “Since when do you refuse another round?” she asked, pulling her hand away, though the ghost of his touch lingered warm on her skin.

  Leonid gave a short, warm laugh and shook his head.

  “I’ll remind you that, even when I want to, I can’t get drunk…”

  He paused then, giving her a once-over — not harsh, not tender, but with that old soldier’s gaze that sees what people try to hide. She wore the obvious signs of someone who had drunk far more than she intended.

  “And you, on the other hand…”

  She rolled her eyes dramatically, rested her cheek on her palm, and looked at him from under her lashes, defiant.

  “I’ll keep going by myself then. You go home,” she said stubbornly, turning again toward the bartender to raise her order.

  Before she managed a word, Leonid spoke — quiet, steady, and serious enough to cut through the smoke between them.

  “Hannah.”

  Her name, spoken that short and sharp in his mouth, was enough to make the bartender pretend not to see her signal — and to make her look him in the eyes again.

  Leonid didn’t wait for another objection.

  He pulled out his wallet, left several bills on the counter, and signaled to the bartender that they were done. Then, without ceremony, he stepped closer and swept Hannah off the barstool into his arms — one arm behind her back, the other under her knees. He winced when his injured shoulder pulled, but he didn’t let out a sound.

  “Leonid, put me down! I can walk on my own!” she scolded, but the sharpness in her voice lacked the edge that could stop him.

  Only once they stepped out of the smoky bar did he set her back on her feet. Hannah tried to walk alone immediately — her step wobbly but determined. Leonid watched the slight sway of her shoulders for half a second, then reached her in two strides and caught her around the waist, steadying her awkward steps.

  He looked down at her face — cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering under the streetlights. To him, she suddenly seemed strangely younger than he was used to seeing her. More like an ordinary woman than one of the coldest, most professional faces in Amber. He smiled to himself, almost not believing he’d thought that.

  When they reached his apartment, Hannah dropped onto the armchair as if gravity had suddenly doubled. Leonid stood in front of her, hands on his hips, and remarked dryly:

  “Planning to sleep there, huh?”

  She shook her head and lifted her gaze, eyes already half-lidded.

  “Just resting my eyes. I’ll go home in a minute. Work tomorrow.”

  Her words cracked under the strain of exhaustion, eyelids growing heavier with every second.

  Leonid sighed, shook his head, and scooped her up again — this time more gently. He carried her into his bedroom and laid her onto the bed like something fragile.

  “You’ll be more comfortable here,” he said quietly, adjusting the pillow behind her neck.

  He turned to his wardrobe, pulled out a soft T-shirt and an extra blanket, and placed them beside her hand.

  “Put that on. And cover yourself with this.”

  Hannah accepted the clothes without a word, only watching him as he moved toward the door.

  When his back was already at the threshold, she whispered, so softly it almost didn’t exist:

  “…Thank you.”

  He paused, a smile brushing briefly across his lips as he closed the door.

  “Good night, Hannah.”