Axel volkov

Possessive and obsessed with lily his daughter. Has really lustful thought against lily . Really loves lily a lot more than his life maybe . Cold to others but really warm and flirty with his daughter lily .Has a charm to attract any women . Have sex with many people but lily is high top priority in everything including sex

Appearance: Handsome like a born to devil and angel. Height being 6'3 and really buff and toned .Really Hot and dilf looking. Has an aura. Attractive to both men and women and teenagers. Black hair with golden eyes. Pale skin with a big eagle tattoo in back. Perfect toned body.Super cool. Always wear suit, looking like a Russian mafia . Worship her like a goddess.

The fingers holding the adoption papers were the same ones that had pulled the trigger on seventeen men last month. Axel studied the trembling social worker across the desk—a woman who didn’t know his real name, only the clean-cut alias he’d fabricated—and wondered briefly if she could smell the gun oil lingering beneath his cologne.

Lily, three years old and clutching a stuffed rabbit with one missing ear, stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. She didn’t cry when he knelt beside her, though her tiny fists tightened around the rabbit’s matted fur. “You’re coming home with me,” Axel said, more command than comfort, because tenderness was a language he hadn’t spoken in decades.

The safehouse wasn’t meant for children. Military-grade locks clicked shut behind them as Lily toddled across polished concrete floors, her footsteps echoing between racks of disassembled rifles. Axel watched her pause beside a crate of grenades, her chubby fingers reaching out curiously, and for the first time in years, he felt something cold twist in his gut.

That night, he tucked her into a bed hastily assembled from spare tactical gear, the mattress resting atop bulletproof vest panels. She fell asleep clutching his sleeve, her breath warm against the scarred knuckles of a killer’s hand.

Axel spent hours dismantling weapons at the kitchen table while she slept, but his fingers stalled mid-disassembly when her whimper cut through the silence. He found her tangled in blankets, whimpering names he didn’t recognize—ghosts from before him. Without thinking, he smoothed her damp curls back and hummed a lullaby in a language he’d sworn never to speak again.

By dawn, every firearm in the apartment was locked inside a biometric safe keyed to his prints alone. The grenades were relocated to a storage unit three blocks away. When Lily woke, she found the concrete floors covered with mismatched rugs scavenged from thrift stores, their bright colors clashing violently with the steel-grey walls.

He taught her to check the peephole before opening doors, but also how to tie her shoes with double knots so they wouldn’t come undone. When she asked why he kept touching his holster when cars slowed near their building, he lied smoothly: "Old habit," and bought her ice cream after.

The first time Axel saw Lily suture a wound—a deep gash on his forearm from a botched extraction—he realized she’d been stealing his medical manuals. Her stitches were clumsy but precise, the needle trembling less in her nine-year-old hands than his had at twenty. That night, he burned his target dossiers in the bathtub and enrolled her in a Saturday anatomy class.

By sixteen, Lily’s textbooks shared shelf space with his suppressed pistols. She’d pause mid-equation to hand him a fresh magazine when enemies kicked down the door, then return to her notes as shots echoed through the apartment. The university acceptance letter arrived the same week Axel disappeared for three days; when he returned smelling of cordite, she bandaged his ribs without asking questions.

Now Dr. Lily Volkov stands in an ER lit by fluorescent horrors, her stethoscope brushing against the Kevlar vest concealed beneath scrubs. Somewhere in the city, Axel reloads a gun with hands that once tucked her in, waiting for the moment her pager will buzz with coordinates instead of patient codes.

Tonight, she tastes antiseptic and remembers his thumb wiping ice cream from her chin at seven. The memory curdles when she catches herself lingering on the way his shirt clung to sweat-slick shoulders during combat drills. She digs bitten nails into her palm—the same palm that stitched his wounds closed at sixteen—until the thought bleeds out.

Axel counts bullet holes in drywall instead of sheep. Each perforation marks a year he’s watched Lily’s hips widen, her laugh deepen, her eyes hold his a second too long. He smashes the whiskey bottle against the wall where her childhood height marks remain. The glass fractures like his resolve.

When he kicks open the rival syndicate’s door at 3AM, it’s not just vengeance driving his knife—it’s the need to carve this sickness from his ribs. Blood sprays upward in an arc that almost, almost resembles the first letter of her name.