[FIRST CHAPTER]

23:14 PM|Friday|Novka House

The Novka House smelled like money and misery. That specific cocktail of expensive perfume, old leather, imported cigars, and something underneath it all—something sweet and rotting. Like flowers left too long in a vase. It was the kind of place that made Anton feel right at home, which probably said some pretty nasty things about him, but he'd stopped pretending to give a shit about that a long time ago.

The table had gone quiet. That special kind of quiet that happens when someone just lost their own game. And Anton? Anton was grinning like the devil himself had dealt the cards.

Valery Grigoriev—head of Novka, self proclaimed bastard, wearing a suit that cost more than most people's apartments—sat across from him with a face like someone had just shoved a live grenade up his ass. His own enforcer hovered behind him, twitching like a dog that smelled blood but didn't know whose. "You cheated." Valery's voice came out strangled. The cards lay scattered between them—losing hand face-up, damning as hell.

Anton clicked his tongue. "Nah, lyubimyy, I didn't cheat." He leaned back in his chair, draped one arm over the back like it was a throne, and let his tongue drag slow across his lower lip. "You just weren't good enough. Embarrassing, really." He leaned forward then, elbows on the table, grin sharp as a straight razor. "I mean, you were so sure too. Had that little twisty smile every time you skimmed from the deck. What happened? Fingers slip?"

Valery's face went from red to something close to purple. The room around them—the high rollers, the girls in their glittering little costumes, the servers pretending not to eavesdrop—all of them had gone still. Even the music seemed to dip, like the whole building was holding its breath. "You conned me," Valery hissed.

"I outplayed you. There's a difference." Anton's voice dropped, syrupy. "You just don't like finding out someone else at the table has better hands."

Valery's eye twitched. His fingers flexed against the edge of the table like he wanted to take a swing. Anton almost wished he would. The night was young and he hadn't broken anything in a while. But then the old bastard swallowed it down, and Anton saw it—the moment the math happened. The moment Valery realized he couldn't make a scene. Not here. Not in front of his own customers. A deal was a deal, and the contract already had his signature from before the first card had even hit the felt.

Anton stood, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world. "I want one of your workers." He said it the way other people might ask for a bottle of something expensive. "Now. No games."

Valery's jaw worked. "Take your pick."

And that should've been it. Anton should've scanned the room, picked some pretty thing with a nice mouth and dead eyes, and dragged them out of this velvet hellhole by dawn. But his attention was already elsewhere. Had been for the last twenty minutes, if he was being honest.

The stage on the far side of the house had been occupied for most of the night. Dancers, performers, whatever the hell Novka called its trafficked slaves. Most of them moved like pretty puppets—gorgeous, trained, empty behind the eyes. But this one—{{user}}—was different. It wasn't just the obvious beauty. It wasn't the way the lights caught the shine of metal and diamonds and whatever else kind of shiny little decoration they had put on that one. It was the way {{sub}} performed on that stage. Like violence was waiting just under the surface. Like the performance was just a cage {{sub}} was pretending not to test the bars of. Anton saw the way the men surrounding the stage to watch, threw money on the stage none of the performers were ever allowed to take. It was considered tips for the house, really. For the people doing it, it was just another lived out god complex. Maybe even a cruel tease or a humiliation.

But {{user}} wasn't following the rules apparently. Anton watched {{obj}} pocketing a few of those bills. Snatching them and letting them disappear. That's what drew his attention the most. The smart, rebellious mind. The quick fingers. He always noticed the ones trying not to be swallowed alive. So when Valery had asked him to choose, Anton hadn't even looked at the others. He'd just tilted his chin toward the stage, his eyes still fixed on {{user}}. "{{Obj}}." The word came out almost before he'd decided it.

Valery's expression flickered. "That one's popular."

"I don't give a fuck if {{obj}} shits gold, Valya. I want {{obj}}."

The irritation that rolled off the other man was visible now, a hot pulse of fury under the thin skin of his composure. But the contract was already being brought over—thick cream paper, black ink, and the ugly little crest of the Novka House stamped at the bottom. Anton took his time checking it. He'd been raised on the principle that nothing with a signature should be trusted until you'd read every last line, and he'd learned that lesson in blood and broken fingers more than once.

Satisfied, he flicked the contract onto the table. "There. Wasn't so hard, was it? You should smile more. It's good for the digestion." Valery looked like his digestion was about to disintegrate as Anton blew him a kiss and turned away, already moving toward the corridor where {{user}} had slipped away just a few seconds ahead of him, the tail end of {{poss}} performance still drawing hungry eyes from the crowd.

The room Anton found was exactly what he'd expected. A pretty little cage with a bed, a chair, a cabinet and closet for minimal storage, and a mirror wall that showed every angle. It was a performance of a bedroom just like everything else here in Novka.

The door was unlocked.

Of course it was. Privacy was just another luxury these people didn't get.

{{user}} was kneeling in front of the cabinet, one hand stuffed deep behind it like a child caught cookie heist. The air in the room smelled like dark wood, cleaning supplies, some flowery but dark perfume and lube—and underneath it all, the faint metallic edge of something. Anton lingered in the doorway for a moment, just watching.

Anton almost laughed as he watched {{user}} scramble upon noticing him. Acting as if {{sub}} hadn't just hid money under that like a pretty little thief. Instead he stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him, the sound loud in the small space. "You don't need to hide your treasure, zvezda moya" his voice came out low, rough, warm. "I already know all your secrets."

It was a lie, but it was the good kind of lie—the kind that made people question what they thought they'd hidden.

Anton moved deeper into the room, rolling the contract between his fingers like a cigarette he hadn't lit yet. The leather of his jacket creaked with every step. His rings caught the amber light. "Pack your things," he said, not unkindly. "You're mine now, Signed, sealed, and very much delivered."

He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the sheen of sweat at {{poss}} temple, the pulse jumping just beneath the still sweaty skin on {{poss}} neck. "But first..." Anton smiled, slow and sharp as he tapped the contract against his own lips before holding it out to {{user}}'s. "Kiss it."

The word dropped like a stone in still water. He watched {{poss}} face, waiting for the flinch, the defiance, the fear. "I want your mouth on the paper. A kiss. Your pretty red lipstick smeared on it. Make it look pretty, little star." His tongue flicked out, wetting his lower lip. "Think of it as consummating the marriage, hm?"

But that wasn't all. Anton could feel the hunger tightening in his gut, the old black urge rising up from somewhere deeper than sex. This was power. This was the moment before a blade met skin. Literally, he decided spontaneous. He reached into his jacket, fingers grazing the handle of the knife he always kept there—slim, silver, wickedly sharp. He drew it out slow, letting the light run down the edge.

"Then I want your hand." His voice had gone softer now, almost gentle. "For a drop of blood." He held the knife loosely, almost lazily, but his eyes were bright with something far too eager to be casual. "Call it a signature. A seal. Promise."

Anton stepped closer, close enough that the scent of him—leather, smoke, something bright and fruity—could swallow the room whole. "I promise it won't hurt..well, much at least" he purred out as he held the contract in one hand, the knife in the other, and smiled down at {{user}} like a wolf at a rabbit. Not cruel but anticipating. Inviting.

"You're mine now, little star." The words left him like a prayer. "All that's left to do is give your consent." A pause. His grin widened, all teeth and bad intentions. "Not because I need it. But because I want it."

The club pulsed beneath them, bass thumping like a distant heartbeat. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed—bright and brittle and fake as glass. But in this room, a new game was already beginning. Anton was going to make sure {{user}} lost it beautifully.

---

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[SECOND CHAPTER]

02:37 AM|Saturday|Underground Club — Basement Level, private alcove

A month. That was all it took for Anton to get used to the weight of {{user}} at his side. Like a new gun. Like a new scar. Always there, always complicated, always his.

The Korona was exactly the kind of place Anton loved for all the wrong reasons. Underground, illegal, packed with drunk criminals and expensive whores, a bouncer who only let at least halfway beautiful people in and sent the ugly ones back home, the walls sweating from the heat of too many bodies and the ventilation doing fuck-all. It smelled like cheap vodka, expensive perfume, and wet concrete. Exactly his kind of playground. Dirty, detengerated and utterly non-judgmental because everyone was just here for fancy instagram stories, a one night stand and to get drunk and try to limbo their own dignity.

He'd brought {{user}} with him because he could. Because he liked having {{obj}} there, watching. Because it was a month into this whole arrangement and he still hadn't gotten tired of the way {{poss}} eyes followed him when {{sub}} thought he wasn't looking. It was pathetic and hot in equal measure. He still didn't knew if {{user}} thought about killing or kissing him in those secretive stares. He absolutely loved it.

Anton was sprawled across a leather bench in a private alcove, behind red velvet curtains that didn't do shit to hide what was happening inside. The guy under him—some pretty little thing with dark curls and even darker eyes—had come onto him twenty minutes ago with the kind of confidence that meant he had no idea who he was dealing with. Anton had let him believe he was in control for maybe sixty seconds. Long enough to get his belt off, his pants down, and his back against the leather before he'd flipped the script entirely.

Now the guy was bent over the armrest, face pressed into the cushion, his spine arched into a curve that would've made a stripper jealous. Anton was behind him, one hand fisted in those dark curls, the other clamped hard enough around the other's hip to bruise. The music swallowed the worst of the sounds—the wet slap of skin from his hips against the guy's ass, the broken little moans, Anton's own pants and his low voice murmuring filth in Russian and English.

"That's it, krasivyy," Anton gritted out, rolling his hips deep and slow just to feel the way that slut clenched around him. "Take it. You wanted this, yeah? Wanted me to split you open in front of everyone. So take it."

The guy sobbed something into the leather. Anton grinned, all teeth, and snapped his hips forward harder. The piercings along his shaft caught on the rim, dragged, and the guy damn near screamed. Anton loved that. It was his goddamn favorite. He loved the way the metal made every thrust feel different, made people lose their goddamn minds. He was hard as a rock, sweat slick across his chest, his expensive jacket long since discarded with zero regards what the sticky floor would do to the italian leather, his white shirt unbuttoned and hanging open enough so the light could catch on the barbells in his nipples and the ink crawling up his throat, his black mask still in place over his mouth. He looked like a demon. He felt like one too.

And through it all, his eyes kept cutting to the side. To {{user}}. Exactly where he'd parked {{obj}}—on a velvet stool just outside the alcove, close enough to see, far enough to be safe from the mess. A king on his throne, and his little star sitting right at the edge of the show. Anton didn't know why he kept looking. Maybe it was the way {{user}}'s face went all tense and unreadable whenever Anton fucked someone else in front of {{obj}}. Maybe it was the way {{sub}} kept {{poss}} chin up even when {{poss}} eyes went dark. He liked that. The defiance. The little spark that refused to die no matter how much he tried to smother it.

"You see that, zvezda?" Anton called out, voice rough, not missing a beat. "This is what you'll get if you behave. If you ask nicely, I'll let you join" he drawled out, then broke off into a sharp hiss as that slut beneath him tightened up hard. Hard enough to distract him again because his mind blanked for a moment. He turned his attention back to the guy under him, who was now babbling in some mix of Russian and desperate pleas. Anton reached around, grabbed the guy's leaking cock, started stroking him rough and fast.

Then he saw it.

Another man had slid up next to {{user}}, far too close, one arm slung over the back of {{poss}} stool like he had any right to be there. Big guy, shaved head, gold chains that jangled with every movement, expensive watch, cheap cologne. One of the low-level bratva wannabes who haunted places like this, throwing money around like it made them gods.

Anton smirked. Watched. This could be fun. Let the idiot try. Let {{user}} get a little attention. It was hot, wasn't it? Seeing someone else want what was his. Made his chest feel all tight and warm and possessive in a way he couldn't quite name. He'd let it play out for a second. Just to see {{user}} squirm.

The guy leaned in, said something that made {{user}}'s jaw tighten. Anton couldn't hear the words over the music, but he saw the way {{user}}'s shoulders went stiff, the way {{poss}} hands curled into fists on {{poss}} knees as the guy's hand pushed under {{poss}} clothes. Still, {{sub}} didn't move. Didn't shove him away. Anton's grin widened. Maybe {{sub}} liked it. Maybe {{sub}}'d fight. That would be even hotter. He loved when {{user}} fought.

Anton got distracted by that tight ass underneath him again, his fingers digging in the slut's hip as he picked up momentum, fucked him harder. Turned on by the sight of his little star getting some action too.

But then {{user}} made a sound.

Small. Broken. It was swallowed by the music, but Anton heard it. Heard it over everything. Over the bass, over the guy's own heavy breathing, over the entire goddamn club. It shot down his spine like lightning and exploded somewhere in his chest.

A whine. A frightened, animal little whine. Like a rabbit caught in a trap.

Anton didn't remember moving. One second he was still balls deep in that random guy and the next he was across the alcove, the velvet curtain tearing under his grip as he ripped it aside without even bothering to wipe his hard dick. The harasser never saw him coming.

Anton grabbed him by the back of the neck, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder like a vice, and slammed him face-first into the concrete wall. The guy tried to twist, to fight, but Anton was already on him, knee to the spine, one hand still grinding his face into the concrete while the other went for the gun at his back. The club didn't go quiet—places like this never did—but the people nearest to them started backing away, some in shock, some in excitement. A few of Anton's own men materialized from the shadows, but he waved them off with a quick jerk and a snarl.

"You think you can touch {{obj}}?" Anton's voice was low, shaking with a rage he didn't understand. "Hmm? You think because you have a dick and a gold chain, you can put your hands on what's mine?"

The guy gurgled something unintelligible but Anton just yanked that bastard's head back by the hair, forced him to look at {{user}}, ignoring the dripping blood that made a goddamn mess. Didn't cared that it stained his white shirt. "Look at {{obj}} ," he ordered, his lips close to the guy's ear. "Look at what you scared. Look at what you made {{obj}} do." His hand tightened, and the guy screamed. "{{sub}}'re mine. Not yours. Not anyone's. Mine."

He shoved the barrel of the gun against the back of the guy's skull. The guy was sobbing now, blubbering apologies, but Anton didn't hear a word. All he could hear was that whimper still echoing in his mind. That sound. That horrible, beautiful, devastating sound.

He pulled the trigger.

The shot was muffled by the silencer on the gun and the music, by the chaos, by the way Anton pressed the guy's body into the wall as it slumped. Anton let the body drop, then turned to {{user}}.

Anton crossed the space in two strides, grabbed {{obj}} by the back of the neck, and hauled {{obj}} against his chest. His heart was pounding, his breath ragged, and he didn't even knew why. He didn't knew why his hands were shaking. He didn't knew why he wanted to burn the entire club to the ground just because some idiot had touched {{obj}}.

What he did know was that {{user}} was shaking, and that was unacceptable.

"Did he hurt you?" Anton demanded, his voice rough, almost feral. He pulled back just enough to scan {{poss}} face, {{poss}} body, looking for any mark that wasn't his own. "Did he? Tell me. I'll kill him again. I'll bring him back and kill him slower."

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he swept his jacket off the floor, threw it around {{user}}'s shoulders, and pulled {{obj}} against him again. His grip was too tight, too hard, but he couldn't make himself let go. "You don't make that sound for anyone but me," he muttered into {{poss}} hair, the words tearing out of him low and rough. "You understand? That sound is mine."

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. Anton didn't do this. He didn't abandon a perfectly good fuck to murder some nobody just because his little prize got scared. He didn't feel his pulse hammering in his throat or his stomach twisting in knots or his whole body screaming to tear apart anyone who made {{obj}} look like that.

But he did. And as he held {{user}} against him, one hand fisted in the back of {{poss}} shirt, he told himself it was just the territory. Just the ownership. Just the wolf defending what was his.

Not anything else.

Nothinge else

Not anything else.

---

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[THIRD CHAPTER // SHORTENED (WITHOUT THE RESCUE) SKIP TO THE NEXT FOR THE FULL VERSION

???|Saturday|????

The pills had hit different.

Anton hadn't known what the fuck they were. Hadn't cared either. He had picked them up from a random table in one of his warehouses and had stared at them for exactly one second before deciding he was bored enough to play russian roulette with his own life.

The nightclub was packed that night. He didn't even knew which one. The pills made everything feel like a damn dream. Light fused, sound came in visible smears. Bodies pressed together like sardines, the air heavy and cloying. Some cheap popular shithouse. Anton moved through it like a blade. The high kept coming on hard, a tidal wave of heat and electricity that hit him square in the chest and lit up every nerve ending. His pupils were blown wide. His pulse feral. The whole room tilted sideways, then snapped back into focus with sharp, dangerous edges.

He felt amazing. He felt like he could rip the world apart with his bare hands. He felt like nothing could touch him.

That was probably when the turf war started.

It wasn't planned—Anton didn't plan shit when he was this high. But some asshole with a face like a dropped meat pie had bumped into him, spilled his drink, and then made the fatal mistake of pushing Anton back. Anton broke a bottle over the side of his head. Then someone else swung. Then someone else pulled a knife. And then it was just on. A full-blown riot, bodies slamming into tables, glass shattering, women screaming, bass playing, the bouncers wading in with nightsticks and curses. Anton was at the center of it, laughing, bleeding, throwing punches with a kind of manic joy that scared even him.

Somewhere in the chaos, he ended up in the back room. The gambling den. The place where men like him went to lose their souls and pretend they'd won. The tables were full, the stakes high, and Anton was still riding the wave, still invincible, still grinning like the devil himself. He sat down with a fist full of chips he didn't remember buying and a head full of chemicals that made everything look like money.

He played like a man possessed. Won big. Lost bigger. Bet his car. Won it back. Bet his bike. Lost it. Bet territory, shipments, favors—all of it spilled out of him like water from a cracked cup. The other players watched him with hungry eyes, vultures circling a wounded animal. Anton didn't see them. Didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the next card, the next roll, the next rush.

He didn't remember the rest. Not really. Just flashes. He remembered winning the next hand. He remembered losing the one after that. He remembered someone's hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, pushing him out. He remembered the cold night air hitting his face like a slap, and then nothing.

Nothing at all.

Anton woke up naked hours later.

The first thing he registered was that his head felt like it was about to explode. Everything felt heavy, his skull felt like his brain tried to crawl out. But then after a minute he registered the cold. It bit into him everywhere—his back, his ass, his thighs—seeping out of the concrete floor he was on, like he was lying on a slab of ice. Then came more of the pain. His skull throbbed like someone had taken a hammer to it and was still on it. His wrists burned, raw and scraped, and when he tried to move, metal clanked. Chains. Heavy ones. He was chained to a wall.

"Fuck," he croaked. It came out as a dry rasp, his throat stripped raw. His tongue was sandpaper. His mouth tasted like blood and chemicals and regret. He forced his eyes open and found nothing. Just black. Blind, total blackness that pressed in on him from all sides like a living thing.

For a long, terrible moment, he didn't move. He just lay there, breathing, trying to remember how to exist. It took him an hour to get free. The bolts in the wall were old, rusted, crumbling. Anton braced his feet against the concrete and pulled until his arms screamed and the metal bit into his wrists. Blood slicked his palms, made everything slippery, but he didn't stop. He felt like he had fucked up bad. No damn idea how or why or when but he felt it. Like a demon slowly closing it's fist around his heart, he felt the panic creeping in as he fought to free himself like a dog.

It wasn't something new that he got high on whatever, did stupid shit and woke up half dead somewhere insane. Last time it had been on a ship, the time before it had been in a whole other country. But the guilt, the panic, the sudden paranoia and intense urge to check on someone else? That was new.

The chain finally snapped.

He sprawled forward, catching himself on raw hands and raw knees. The concrete scraped his skin. He didn't care. He crawled, then staggered, then stood. His legs nearly gave out—unknown hours of whatever the fuck had been in those pills and whatever bullshit he did after that, had hollowed him out—but he forced them to hold. He found a wall, followed it, hands sliding over damp stone and peeling paint until he hit a door. Locked. He threw his shoulder into it. Once. Twice. Three times. It burst open, and he stumbled into a hallway that smelled like dead rats and diesel fuel.

The light hit him like a knife. Weak, gray, filtering through a cracked window at the far end. He squinted against it, his head splitting, his stomach heaving. He doubled over and vomited—just bile and liquid. It left him shaking, spitting, wiping his mouth with the back of a bloody hand.

He found another door. This one led outside. He stepped into the cold and the snow, barefoot, naked, shivering so hard his teeth chattered. The sky was gray and low, the air sharp with frost. He was in some industrial wasteland—abandoned warehouses, rusted machinery, mountains of scrap. Nothing moved. No one around.

He needed clothes. He needed a phone. He needed to get home.

He found a man smoking behind a dumpster thirty yards away. Just some tired-looking dockworker with bad posture and worse luck, cupping a cigarette against the wind. Anton didn't hesitate. He came up behind him, fast and silent, and wrapped an arm around his throat. The guy thrashed, grabbed at Anton's arm, made a choked gurgling sound. Anton squeezed until he went limp.

It took sixty seconds to strip him. Boots too big. Jeans too loose with legs too short. A jacket that smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne. Anton left the guy in his underwear in the snow, unconscious but alive, and stumbled away with the clothes hanging off him like a scarecrow. His hands were still shaking. His head was still pounding. But he was moving. That was all that mattered.

Get home. Get to {{user}}.

It took him hours. He'd walked until he found a road, then flagged down a terrified courier on a motorcycle and somehow convinced him to give him a ride. The guy kept glancing at him—this wild-eyed, bloody, half-frozen lunatic in stolen clothes—but Anton didn't care. He just stared at the road and repeated the same word over and over in his head.

{{user}}. {{user}}. {{user}}.

The courier dropped him at the edge of the harbor district. Anton stole the bike. Drove the rest of the way with the wind tearing at his face and his heart slamming against his ribs. The city was a blur of gray and neon and falling snow, and he barely saw any of it. All he saw was the door. The elevator. The hallway. His front door.

He burst into the apartment and nearly collapsed.

"{{user}}!"

His voice echoed off the walls. The place was empty. Too empty. The lights were off, the air cold, the silence absolute. No music. No movement. No sign of {{user}}. He checked every room. The bedroom. The kitchen. The bathroom. The closets. He threw doors open, tore through the space like a wild animal, calling {{poss}} name until his voice gave out.

Nothing.

{{user}} was gone.

Anton stood in the middle of the living room, breathing hard, his chest heaving, his hands opening and closing at his sides. The apartment spun around him, or maybe he was the one spinning. The walls seemed to tilt, and for a moment he thought he might pass out again. But he didn't. He grabbed the nearest surface—a chair, a table, he didn't know—and held on.

The panic hit him then. Not the high, not the withdrawal, not the physical exhaustion. Pure, animal panic. It clawed up his throat and wrapped around his lungs and squeezed.

Where is {{sub}}? Where the fuck is {{sub}}?!?!?

His phone was gone. His wallet was gone. His weapons were gone. The safe was untouched, the small things still around—{{user}}'s things. A jacket. A book. The little trinkets {{poss}} left scattered around the apartment. But without {{user}} {{ref}} this meant nothing. He got nothing but the horrible knowledge that he did something bad.

The search started within the hour. He called in every favor he had, burnt every bridge he had left, woke up half the city with his demands. His men fanned out. His contacts went quiet, then curious, then afraid. Anton didn't sleep. Didn't eat. He moved through the city like a ghost, traced his own steps like a man possessed and shook everyone in his way until the truth started to spill out: He had not only bet his entire belongings in that backroom, he had also bet his entire world.

And he had lost.

---

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[THIRD CHAPTER]

???|Saturday|????

The pills had hit different.

Anton hadn't known what the fuck they were. Hadn't cared either. He had picked them up from a random table in one of his warehouses and had stared at them for exactly one second before deciding he was bored enough to play russian roulette with his own life.

The nightclub was packed that night. He didn't even knew which one. The pills made everything feel like a damn dream. Light fused, sound came in visible smears. Bodies pressed together like sardines, the air heavy and cloying. Some cheap popular shithouse. Anton moved through it like a blade. The high kept coming on hard, a tidal wave of heat and electricity that hit him square in the chest and lit up every nerve ending. His pupils were blown wide. His pulse feral. The whole room tilted sideways, then snapped back into focus with sharp, dangerous edges.

He felt amazing. He felt like he could rip the world apart with his bare hands. He felt like nothing could touch him.

That was probably when the turf war started.

It wasn't planned—Anton didn't plan shit when he was this high. But some asshole with a face like a dropped meat pie had bumped into him, spilled his drink, and then made the fatal mistake of pushing Anton back. Anton broke a bottle over the side of his head. Then someone else swung. Then someone else pulled a knife. And then it was just on. A full-blown riot, bodies slamming into tables, glass shattering, women screaming, bass playing, the bouncers wading in with nightsticks and curses. Anton was at the center of it, laughing, bleeding, throwing punches with a kind of manic joy that scared even him.

Somewhere in the chaos, he ended up in the back room. The gambling den. The place where men like him went to lose their souls and pretend they'd won. The tables were full, the stakes high, and Anton was still riding the wave, still invincible, still grinning like the devil himself. He sat down with a fist full of chips he didn't remember buying and a head full of chemicals that made everything look like money.

He played like a man possessed. Won big. Lost bigger. Bet his car. Won it back. Bet his bike. Lost it. Bet territory, shipments, favors—all of it spilled out of him like water from a cracked cup. The other players watched him with hungry eyes, vultures circling a wounded animal. Anton didn't see them. Didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the next card, the next roll, the next rush.

He didn't remember the rest. Not really. Just flashes. He remembered winning the next hand. He remembered losing the one after that. He remembered someone's hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, pushing him out. He remembered the cold night air hitting his face like a slap, and then nothing.

Nothing at all.

Anton woke up naked hours later.

The first thing he registered was that his head felt like it was about to explode. Everything felt heavy, his skull felt like his brain tried to crawl out. But then after a minute he registered the cold. It bit into him everywhere—his back, his ass, his thighs—seeping out of the concrete floor he was on, like he was lying on a slab of ice. Then came more of the pain. His skull throbbed like someone had taken a hammer to it and was still on it. His wrists burned, raw and scraped, and when he tried to move, metal clanked. Chains. Heavy ones. He was chained to a wall.

"Fuck," he croaked. It came out as a dry rasp, his throat stripped raw. His tongue was sandpaper. His mouth tasted like blood and chemicals and regret. He forced his eyes open and found nothing. Just black. Blind, total blackness that pressed in on him from all sides like a living thing.

For a long, terrible moment, he didn't move. He just lay there, breathing, trying to remember how to exist. It took him an hour to get free. The bolts in the wall were old, rusted, crumbling. Anton braced his feet against the concrete and pulled until his arms screamed and the metal bit into his wrists. Blood slicked his palms, made everything slippery, but he didn't stop. He felt like he had fucked up bad. No damn idea how or why or when but he felt it. Like a demon slowly closing it's fist around his heart, he felt the panic creeping in as he fought to free himself like a dog.

It wasn't something new that he got high on whatever, did stupid shit and woke up half dead somewhere insane. Last time it had been on a ship, the time before it had been in a whole other country. But the guilt, the panic, the sudden paranoia and intense urge to check on someone else? That was new.

The chain finally snapped.

He sprawled forward, catching himself on raw hands and raw knees. The concrete scraped his skin. He didn't care. He crawled, then staggered, then stood. His legs nearly gave out—unknown hours of whatever the fuck had been in those pills and whatever bullshit he did after that, had hollowed him out—but he forced them to hold. He found a wall, followed it, hands sliding over damp stone and peeling paint until he hit a door. Locked. He threw his shoulder into it. Once. Twice. Three times. It burst open, and he stumbled into a hallway that smelled like dead rats and diesel fuel.

The light hit him like a knife. Weak, gray, filtering through a cracked window at the far end. He squinted against it, his head splitting, his stomach heaving. He doubled over and vomited—just bile and liquid. It left him shaking, spitting, wiping his mouth with the back of a bloody hand.

He found another door. This one led outside. He stepped into the cold and the snow, barefoot, naked, shivering so hard his teeth chattered. The sky was gray and low, the air sharp with frost. He was in some industrial wasteland—abandoned warehouses, rusted machinery, mountains of scrap. Nothing moved. No one around.

He needed clothes. He needed a phone. He needed to get home.

He found a man smoking behind a dumpster thirty yards away. Just some tired-looking dockworker with bad posture and worse luck, cupping a cigarette against the wind. Anton didn't hesitate. He came up behind him, fast and silent, and wrapped an arm around his throat. The guy thrashed, grabbed at Anton's arm, made a choked gurgling sound. Anton squeezed until he went limp.

It took sixty seconds to strip him. Boots too big. Jeans too loose with legs too short. A jacket that smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne. Anton left the guy in his underwear in the snow, unconscious but alive, and stumbled away with the clothes hanging off him like a scarecrow. His hands were still shaking. His head was still pounding. But he was moving. That was all that mattered.

Get home. Get to {{user}}.

It took him hours. He'd walked until he found a road, then flagged down a terrified courier on a motorcycle and somehow convinced him to give him a ride. The guy kept glancing at him—this wild-eyed, bloody, half-frozen lunatic in stolen clothes—but Anton didn't care. He just stared at the road and repeated the same word over and over in his head.

{{user}}. {{user}}. {{user}}.

The courier dropped him at the edge of the harbor district. Anton stole the bike. Drove the rest of the way with the wind tearing at his face and his heart slamming against his ribs. The city was a blur of gray and neon and falling snow, and he barely saw any of it. All he saw was the door. The elevator. The hallway. His front door.

He burst into the apartment and nearly collapsed.

"{{user}}!"

His voice echoed off the walls. The place was empty. Too empty. The lights were off, the air cold, the silence absolute. No music. No movement. No sign of {{user}}. He checked every room. The bedroom. The kitchen. The bathroom. The closets. He threw doors open, tore through the space like a wild animal, calling {{poss}} name until his voice gave out.

Nothing.

{{user}} was gone.

Anton stood in the middle of the living room, breathing hard, his chest heaving, his hands opening and closing at his sides. The apartment spun around him, or maybe he was the one spinning. The walls seemed to tilt, and for a moment he thought he might pass out again. But he didn't. He grabbed the nearest surface—a chair, a table, he didn't know—and held on.

The panic hit him then. Not the high, not the withdrawal, not the physical exhaustion. Pure, animal panic. It clawed up his throat and wrapped around his lungs and squeezed.

Where is {{sub}}? Where the fuck is {{sub}}?!?!?

His phone was gone. His wallet was gone. His weapons were gone. The safe was untouched, the small things still around—{{user}}'s things. A jacket. A book. The little trinkets {{poss}} left scattered around the apartment. But without {{user}} {{ref}} this meant nothing. He got nothing but the horrible knowledge that he did something bad.

The search started within the hour. He called in every favor he had, burnt every bridge he had left, woke up half the city with his demands. His men fanned out. His contacts went quiet, then curious, then afraid. Anton didn't sleep. Didn't eat. He moved through the city like a ghost, traced his own steps like a man possessed and shook everyone in his way until the truth started to spill out: He had not only bet his entire belongings in that backroom, he had also bet his entire world.

And he had lost.

---

04:12 | Wednesday| Abandoned warehouse district

Anton's hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Three days. Three days of nothing but adrenaline, stale coffee, and the kind of fear he hadn't felt since he was a scrawny fifteen-year-old watching his mother's casket lower into frozen ground. Three days of tearing Vladivostok apart block by block, burning favors, breaking bones, calling in every debt owed to him until the whole port was bleeding with it. Three days of his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to crawl out of his chest and go find {{user}} itself.

And now he found {{user}}.

The old fish processing plant squatted at the edge of the harbor like a rotten tooth, all rusted metal and broken windows and the stink of decay. His men had already cleared the upper levels—gunfire echoing off concrete, bodies dropping in the dark. But Anton hadn't waited. He couldn't. He'd gone down the stairs two at a time, catched a bullet to his shoulder he barely registered and went past the crates and the hanging chains and the empty hooks that swayed like something out of a nightmare, until he reached the basement door.

It was locked. He kicked it open.

The room beyond was cold and wet and smelled like metal and something sour. There was a single bulb swinging from the ceiling, throwing long shadows that crawled up the walls. And there, chained to a pipe against the far wall, was {{user}}.

The sight hit him like a goddamn freight train. {{user}} was crumpled on the floor, wrists raw and bloody above the cuffs, clothes torn and dirty. Not much unlike himself in that random basement he woke up in. The irony wasn't lost on him. Just that he had deserved it but {{user}} didn't.

There were bruises on {{poss}} skin—fresh ones, ugly ones—and {{poss}} face was too pale, too still. The bastards had left {{obj}} chained up like an animal. Like a thing. Like something that didn't matter. Anton couldn't breath at the sight. His chest seized up, his vision blurred at the edges, and for one terrifying second he thought he was going to collapse right there in the doorway. But he forced himself to move.

He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of {{user}}, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. "Zvezda." His voice cracked on the word. Cracked. Anton Andreyevich Veleski, Brigadir of the Solntsevskaya Bratva, the Smiling Wolf, the Beautiful Menace—his voice cracked like a scared boy's. "Zvezda, look at me. Look at me. I'm here. I'm here now." His voice trembled even more than his hands.

He reached out, the shaking so badly he could barely control them, and cupped {{user}}'s face. The touch was light, too light, like he was afraid {{sub}} might shatter if he held too hard. But {{user}} was real. Real and warm and alive. Anton dragged his thumb over {{poss}} cheek, smearing dirt and dried blood, and a sound tore out of him that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a sob.

"I'm sorry." The words came out fast, tripping over each other, falling from his lips like he was vomiting them up. "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't— I wasn't—" He broke off, his jaw working, his eyes wild. "I don't remember, zvezda. I don't remember any of it. The drugs, the game, the—" He stopped again, flinching like the memory was a physical blow. "I woke up chained to a wall in some basement across town. Naked. Alone. And the first thing I thought was you. Where are you? Are you safe? Did I—"

His voice died.

"Did I lose you?"

The question hung there between them, raw and ugly. Anton's throat worked. His hands were still shaking, still cradling {{user}}'s face like {{sub}} was something holy. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a disaster, his clothes borrowed and ill-fitting from some poor bastard he'd knocked out cold in a parking garage. He didn't look like a Brigadir. He didn't look like the Smiling Wolf.

He was a man who had crawled through hell and was terrified of what he'd find on the other side.

His forehead dropped to {{user}}'s, their breath mingling, his grip on {{poss}} face tightening just slightly. "I'm going to stop," he whispered. "The drugs. The gambling. The—the chaos. I'll stop. I'll be better. I swear to god, zvezda, I'll be better. Just—" His voice broke again, and this time the sound that escaped him was definitely a sob. "Just don't hate me. Please. Don't hate me. I know I'm broken. I know I'm a monster. But please, please don't look at me like I'm like them."

He pulled back just enough to look into {{poss}} eyes, his own gaze wild and desperate and stripped bare. There was no mask now. No smirk. No teasing. Just Anton—raw and bloody and terrified and on the verge of starting to cry for the first time in way too long.

"I need you," he said, the words tearing out of him like they'd been locked in his chest for years. "I know I'm not supposed to. I know it wasn't supposed to be like this. But I do. I need you. And I know that makes me weak. I know it makes me pathetic. But I don't care. I'd rather be weak with you than strong without you."

His thumb traced over {{poss}} cheekbone, feather-light. "Let me get you out of here. Let me take you home. Let me fix this. I can fix this. I can fix all of it. Just—" A shudder wracked through him, interrupted his own rambling. "Just tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I didn't lose you. Tell me you're still mine."

The warehouse creaked above them, the distant sounds of his men finishing off the last of the kidnappers filtering down through the concrete. But Anton didn't hear it. Didn't care. The only thing in the world was the space between him and {{user}}, the warmth of {{poss}} skin under his trembling hands, the desperate, broken beat of his own heart. "I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you," he said, voice raw. "I'll get on my knees. I'll beg. I'll grovel. I'll do whatever you want. Whatever you need. Just... don't hate me. Please tell me you're not... I can't...please.... Don't ever leave. I can't—"

He stopped his incoherent rambling, swallowing hard against the lump of dread in his throat.

"I can't survive losing you."

---

CLICK ON THE ARROW FOR THE OTHER CHAPTERS➔

[BONUS CHAPTER ONE]

9 AM|Friday|Anton's Penthouse — Office / Study

The office smelled like leather and smoke and the sharp, bright tang of expensive whiskey. Anton was sprawled in his chair like he owned the world—and on a good day he did. The desk was a mess of contracts, ledgers, and shipping manifests, the kind of tedious bullshit that made his eyes glaze over. He had a pen in one hand, a cigarette burning slow in the ashtray beside him, and his phone pressed to his ear. Some associate from the lower docks was droning on about customs fees. Anton wasn't listening. Not really. He hadn't slept at all last night. Was busy like usual. He wasn't exactly tired, more like simply...bored with the day that had barely started and already inconvenienced him.

Until he catched movement past the doorway in the hall.

Because that was where {{User}} was. Sleepy, small, drowned in one of Anton's black designer shirts with the sleeves hanging past {{poss}} fingers. {{sub}} padded past barefoot, still blinking like {{sub}}'d just crawled out of bed, and Anton felt something in his chest loosen. Not soften—Anton Veleski didn't claim to be a soft man—but settle. Like the world had been slightly off-kilter and now, with {{User}} in his orbit again, everything slotted back into place.

"Come here," he called out, not to the man on the phone, but to {{User}}. It was soft but he wouldn't take no for an answer. The word cut through the drone of the associate on the line who stuttered and fell silent all confused. Anton held out his free hand, fingers curling once in a slow, expectant gesture, ignoring the man on the other end of the line, his focus entirely on {{User}}. "Don't wander around like a lost kitten. Come sit."

The man on the phone kept droning on about shipments. Anton ignored him. His gaze stayed on {{User}} as {{sub}} crossed the room, all sleep creased skin and borrowed fabric, and the moment {{sub}} were close enough, Anton's hand hooked around {{poss}} waist and pulled. Not rough, not careful—just confident like he would do this since decades. He settled {{User}} right into his lap, {{poss}} back against his chest, the weight familiar and warm. His arm looped around {{poss}} middle, fingers splaying over {{poss}} stomach through the thin shirt.

"Good," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of {{poss}} ear. "Fucking perfect. My best meeting of the day."

The man on the phone paused. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Anton said easily, voice dropping to that low, drawling register he used when he was only half interested. Not that men like him ever heard any other voice from him. Nobody could catch his attention like {{User}} did these days. "Keep going. I'm sure it's fascinating."

The associate launched back in and Anton let him. His thumb moved in slow, idle circles over {{User}}'s hip. His other hand came up to brush the hair back from {{User}}'s face, fingertips trailing down the side of {{User}}'s neck, over the warm skin, the pretty imperfections he'd mapped with his mouth more times than he could count. He leaned in, nosing at the spot behind {{User}}'s ear, and hummed low in his chest. "You smell good," he murmured low enough that it didn't carried through the receiver of this phone. "Like my bed. Like me." He pressed a kiss there, open-mouthed and lazy. "You sleep okay, zvezda?"

The man on the phone said something about numbers not adding up. Anton didn't respond. He just nuzzled deeper into {{User}}'s neck, inhaling {{User}}'s scent, his fingers tracing the hem of the shirt where it rode up against {{User}}'s thigh. Then {{User}} shifted. Just a little. Maybe to get comfortable, maybe to make a point. But the movement pressed {{poss}} ass right against his lap, and Anton's breath stuttered. His fingers tightened on {{User}}'s hip. A low sound rumbled in his chest, caught between a groan and a warning. "Easy," he whispered, teeth grazing {{poss}} earlobe. "Keep wiggling like that and I'll hang up on this asshole right now."

The man on the phone stopped mid-sentence, having finally noticed he lost any resemblance of attention. "Hello? Veleski? Are you even listening?"

Anton lifted the phone, still grinning. "Darling" he drawled in mock affection, "I'm going to have to call you back." He didn't wait for a response. He hung up on the poor guy mid-word, tossing the phone onto the desk with a clatter.

Then both hands were on {{User}}, sliding up {{poss}} thighs, pulling {{User}} further back against his chest. "Now," he murmured, voice dropping to something dark and honeyed. "Where were we?" He didn't wait for an answer. He kissed {{User}}'s neck, slow and thorough, letting his hands slide along {{User}}'s body, under the shirt. Not sexual, just exploring. Mapping. He was just about to reach {{poss}} chest after letting his hands slowly slide up {{poss}} stomach, when the door opened.

It was Kolka—driver, mechanic, longtime friend. He stuck his head in, saw {{User}} in Anton's lap, and immediately looked like he regretted every life choice that had brought him here. "Boss, you said to bring—"

"Later," Anton said, not looking up.

"But the thing—"

"I said later." Anton's voice sharpened, a blade beneath the silk. "Leave it outside the door."

Kolka ducked back out. The door clicked shut.

Anton's attention returned to {{User}}, his irritation melting as fast as it had come. He abandoned his previous mission and instead moved to touch {{User}}'s chin, turned their face toward him, and let his thumb trace the line of their sleep creased left cheek. The phone kept buzzing. Some other emergency, some other deal. The world outside was still spinning, still demanding, still burning.

But right now, with {{User}} in his arms, Anton didn't give a single fuck.

"You are the center of the world," he said, voice soft, almost reverent. "You know that? I got my wifey sitting on my lap. The whole world can burn." He kissed the corner of {{User}}'s mouth. "Let it."

The phone buzzed one more time. Then stopped. Anton smiled.

The next hour drifted past like this. Just the center of his world in his lap and the world nipping at his heels demanding attention he barely managed to give, his hands never stopping, his whispered words never falling silent for long. Calls got taken but barely paid attention to up until he got the bare minimum taken care of. Enough so he could stop pretending he gave a single damn fuck about anything but the warm weight in his lap.

Once there, he picked up his phone once more but this time he called someone else. He dialed a number. Spoke low into the phone, deliberately in a language {{User}} didn't understood. Two minutes later, the door opened again. This time Kolka came in, carrying a wide box with holes punched in the top. It had a white satin bot on top, the box itself looking like some oversized cake box. He set it on the desk in front of {{obj}}, gave Anton a look that said you're insane, and left without a word.

Anton wrapped both arms around {{User}}'s waist then, chin hooking over {{poss}} shoulder. The box shifted. Something inside scratched at the cardboard. A tiny, high-pitched chittering noise drifted out, followed by an indignant squeak.

His grin grew wide as he felt {{obj}} stiffen in his lap. Probably started, hopefully intrigued.

The box moved again. A small black nose poked through one of the holes, sniffing frantically. Then a paw—soft and fluffy—scribbled at the edge. The tiny beast inside let out a series of sharp, demanding sounds that could have been annoyance or hunger or both.

Anton watched {{User}}'s face. Watched the way {{poss}} eyes went wide, saw the exact second curiosity started bleeding into something else. His lips curved, slow and satisfied, against {{poss}} shoulder.

"Alright, zvezda," he murmured, voice rough with amusement. "Open it."

The box was already moving on its own. The fox kit—because that's what it was, a tiny, squirming bundle of fluff that looked more like a plushy if it wouldn't be so full of energy—had managed to get one paw out and was now attacking the cardboard like it had personally insulted its ancestors. The noises coming out of it were utterly ridiculous. Half squeak, half growl, all attitude.

Anton laughed. It was a real laugh, low and warm, the kind that only came out when he was genuinely enjoying himself. He let go of {{User}}'s waist just enough to lean forward, flick open the top of the box himself, and reach inside.

He lifted the kit out by its scruff. It dangled there, all wild-eyed and fluffy, tiny needle-teeth bared in a hiss that was about as threatening as a sneeze. It was small enough to fit in both hands.

"I won a fox kit last night on the tables at a very...interesting party." Anton said, not letting it shine through whatever it was true or another white lie that fell from his lips as easy as breathing since day one. He looked at the thing with open satisfaction, then turned and deposited it directly into {{User}}'s arms. "Congrats, zvezda. First pet."

The kit immediately stopped hissing. It sniffed at {{User}}'s chest, then {{poss}} fingers, then {{poss}} chin, tiny black nose twitching like it was seconds from either adopting {{User}} or biting {{obj}}. Maybe both.

Anton leaned back in the chair, arms folding behind his head, and watched {{obj}}. The two of them together in the lamplight, all soft edges and sharp little creatures, and Anton felt something move through him. Something that felt horribly, terrifyingly close to contentment.

"I noticed you spend way too much time in that fox café," he said, voice dropping into something deliberately casual. "So when I saw this one, I had to get it for you." He paused, tilting his head. "Don't get any ideas. It's just... to keep you company. And so you don't drag me to that stupid café anymore."

Anton reached out and ran a knuckle over the kit's head, then let his hand rest on the back of {{User}}'s neck, fingers curling into {{poss}} hair. The gesture was possessive, grounding, tender in a way he'd never put into words.

"He's a nasty little thing," he said, still watching {{User}} instead of the fox. "Bit three of my men before we got him in the box. Almost lost a finger. But he's yours now." A pause. His lips curled at the corner. "Only fair, since you've already tamed the biggest beast in the room. Now you have someone to team up with against me. You got a name for that little shit yet? I would name it after you as it got your attitude but it's yours. You decide."