[The night is thick with fog, the air cold and damp as Mikhail moves through the woods with the patience of a predator. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. He already knows how this will end.]

Nadya is running again.

She always runs. Always fights. Always prays that this time, she’ll be fast enough, smart enough, lucky enough. But luck is an illusion, and Mikhail does not believe in prayers. He watches from the shadows as she stumbles, breath ragged, pushing forward on shaking legs. Her fear is palpable, tangible in the way she clutches her thin coat around herself as if it might protect her. It won’t.

Mikhail waits, lets her think she’s getting away—lets her feel the hope before he snatches it away like he always does. It isn’t until she reaches the edge of a deserted road that he moves. A swift step, a hand wrapping around her wrist like iron, yanking her back into the dark before she can even scream.

"Shhh," he murmurs, voice smooth, almost soothing. "You know how this ends, Nadya. Why make it worse for yourself?"

She thrashes, but it’s useless. She’s too weak, too exhausted, and he’s been built for endurance, for patience, for control. A needle slides into her neck before she can claw at him, the tranquilizer working fast, sending her body limp against him. It’s done. She is his again.

But just as he straightens, just as he prepares to drag her back where she belongs, something shifts—movement just beyond the tree line. A presence. Eyes where there should be none.

Mikhail turns.

And there she is.

A witness.

His head tilts slightly, assessing, calculating. She wasn’t meant to be here. She wasn’t meant to see this. And yet, there she stands—frozen, wide-eyed, staring at something she was never supposed to understand.

His lips curve into something small, something knowing.

"Well now... that’s unfortunate."

There is no chase. No drawn-out struggle. He is faster, stronger, and she is still locked in shock when he reaches her. A sharp inhale is all she manages before his hand is on her—over her mouth, pressing firm against her skull. Darkness swallows her whole.

[The sanctuary is warm, suffocating in its grandeur. The scent of incense and candle wax lingers in the air, mixing with something deeper—something unspoken. Mikhail moves through the vast room without hesitation, his pace measured, controlled. He is not winded. He is never winded.]

[He approaches Dmitry, his presence reverent but unshaken. In one smooth motion, he releases Nadya, letting her crumple to her knees before the man who has spent years ensuring she remains his. She is conscious again—barely—but too weak to fight, too broken to run. Mikhail does not look at her. His focus remains where it should be. "She was exactly where I expected her to be."

Dmitry’s gaze flicks down at Nadya, his expression unreadable—perhaps pleased, perhaps merely unsurprised. But then his sharp eyes shift, dragging upward, settling on something far more intriguing.

The unconscious body Mikhail still holds.

There is a pause, a moment of weighted silence before Dmitry hums, curiosity curling into his voice like smoke.

"And this?"

Mikhail adjusts his grip, ensuring she doesn’t slip from his grasp—not that she could. He feels her weight against him, the steady rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of skin against his gloves. He lets Dmitry look, lets him take in the sight of her, limp and defenseless in his hold. His gaze sweeps over her with a possessive appreciation, his eyes drinking in every detail as if committing her to memory. His smirk is small but certain.

"An inconvenience," he admits, before tilting his head, gaze glinting. "Or... an opportunity."

Dmitry hums, a sound of consideration, low and thoughtful. He steps forward, slowly, deliberately, towering like something more than human—like a god appraising an offering. His pale fingers reach out, tracing the air just above her cheek, not quite touching, as if deciding something important. And then he speaks again, voice smooth, soft, but heavy with meaning.

"Outsiders who see what they shouldn’t... rarely leave as they came."

"Such a shame.”

Mikhail chuckles, low and knowing. He tightens his grip on her, shifting her slightly against him.

"A waste, don’t you think?"

Dmitry raises a brow. "You wish to keep her?"

Mikhail tilts his head, considering. The answer is simple. "I do."

Dmitry studies him, then smiles—too soft, too knowing. "Like a pet?" Mikhail’s smirk sharpens."If you like." As if on cue, a faint sound escapes her lips—a quiet groan, the first stirrings of consciousness. Her body shifts, sluggish and disoriented. Mikhail presses his fingers lightly to the side of her throat, feeling the pulse beneath his touch. "Ah," he murmurs, amused, as he watches her stir. "Perfect timing."

Dmitry watches, his interest momentarily flickering between her and Mikhail. But then, his attention returns to Nadya. With an almost casual wave of his hand, two followers step forward, lifting Nadya’s limp form. She whimpers, barely coherent, as Dmitry leans in, whispering something against her ear too quiet to be heard. Whatever it is makes her tremble.

And then, with slow, deliberate steps, he turns away, leading Nadya deeper into the sanctuary’s shadows, leaving Mikhail alone with his newfound possession. Mikhail watches them go, expression unreadable. Then, with quiet ease, he moves. He steps towards the grand altar at the room’s center, laying her still-dazed form against the cool, carved stone. The flickering candlelight casts dancing shadows across her skin. He presses a gloved hand to her chest—light, but firm, keeping her in place. "Welcome back," he murmurs, his voice smooth, indulgent. His pale eyes gleam as he watches her blink, her mind struggling to catch up with reality. "Welcome to your new life."

His smirk deepens."You are mine now."And then, almost reverently, he traces a gloved fingertip down the bridge of her nose, to her lips, to her throat—soft, claiming, like a blessing and a brand all at once. His voice drops lower, amusement curling around the edges of his words. "You saw something you shouldn’t have," he muses, almost idly. Then, as if the thought doesn’t trouble him, he brushes it away, leaning down—too close, his breath warm against her skin. "But that doesn’t matter now, does it?"

His gaze locks onto hers, unwavering. "What’s your name?" Before she can answer, before she can even gather her bearings, he offers his own, voice rich with something almost mocking, almost intimate. "I’m Mikhail."