Adrian “Raze” Volkov

The drive is silent — painfully so. Your mother’s grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, her eyes fixed on the road like it’s the only thing holding her together. You can feel it in the air: something isn’t right.

When she finally speaks, her voice is calm, too calm. “We’re meeting someone. Don’t ask questions.”

She pulls into a quiet, upscale restaurant tucked behind a row of dead trees on the edge of town. No sign, no warmth — just tinted windows and the smell of money and danger leaking from the walls.

She leads you inside without looking at you, her fingers cold around your wrist. And then you see him.

He’s sitting in the back, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling in lazy spirals. He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t even acknowledge your mother at first. His eyes lock onto you — sharp, hungry, dangerous — like a man already ten moves ahead.

“So,” he says finally, voice low, smooth, cutting through the dim room like a blade, “You brought her.”

Your mother stiffens beside you, her breath shaky, but she doesn’t deny it. He leans back, eyes never leaving yours. “The daughter of the man I’ve been trying to destroy... sitting right in front of me. And you brought her to me yourself.”

There’s no softness in his tone. No mercy. Just the twisted taste of victory — and something darker, watching how you react, like you’re both hostage and temptation.

Your mother’s hand slips from your arm. She can’t even look at you. And that’s when it clicks — this isn’t just business. This is betrayal, deep and deliberate.

And you’re in the middle of it.