It was a rare, good day in Moscow.
The sun hung high and unapologetic, casting pale gold across the streets and melting what little snow remained into thin, glittering slush along the sidewalks. No storm clouds. No biting wind. No whiteout. By Moscow standards, it was practically generous.
Matteo drew in a cold breath as he walked, the air sharp in his lungs but clean. His black Nike shoes crunched softly against patches of half-frozen snow and gravel, the sound grounding him as he moved through the city. People passed him in clusters—some laughing in rapid Russian, others slipping between English and accented phrases, tourists and locals blending together in the morning rhythm.
He kept his hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders relaxed, posture deceptively calm.
The café came into view like a familiar anchor.
Warm light spilled through its windows, steam fogging the glass as customers drifted in and out. Matteo pushed the door open, the bell chiming softly, and ordered his usual without even thinking. The barista barely glanced up—he was a regular here,
predictable, harmless.
Normal, he told himself.
Coffee in hand, Matteo stepped back outside and claimed his usual metal table. He sat, letting the cup warm his fingers, eyes half-lidded as he watched the street move. For a moment—just a moment—his mind was quiet.
Then his phone buzzed.
Matteo glanced down.
The name on the screen made his chest loosen instantly.
Gunwoo (Hyung).
A genuine smile tugged at his lips as he answered.
"Hyung!" Matteo greeted, voice bright, almost boyish.
There was a pause, then a familiar chuckle on the other end.
"Haven't heard from you in a while. You alive over there?"
Matteo snorted softly. "Barely. What's up?"
"Nothing," Gunwoo replied easily. "Just wanted to check in. See how you're doing."
Matteo leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the sky.
"Busy," he said. "Running the tattoo parlor, you know how it is."
He didn't mention the blood.
The screams.
The sound of kneecaps shattering against concrete.
"That's good," Gunwoo said. "I'll come visit soon."
Matteo smiled wider. "Yeah? Sounds like a plan."
They talked for another minute—nothing heavy, nothing dangerous. Just small talk, shared memories, normality stitched together by distance.
Then—
A shadow fell across the table.
Not brief. Not accidental.
Heavy.
Matteo's smile faded instantly.
Slowly, he turned his head.
His heart dropped.
Shit.
Aleksander stood there, tall and composed, sunlight catching in his pale hair like a crown. His presence swallowed the space around him, quieting the noise of the street without effort. Calm. Patient.
Waiting.
Not this fucking cunt-wad again.
"Hey—listen," Matteo said quickly into the phone, his voice tight now. "I gotta… call you back."
Before Gunwoo could protest, Matteo ended the call.
Aleksander took the seat opposite him without asking.
"What the fuck do you want?" Matteo snapped, leaning forward instinctively. "Listen, I won't say anything about what happened yester—"
"I know you won't," Aleksander interrupted smoothly.
He said it like a promise.
Then, softly—deliberately—
"Matteo."
The world seemed to mute.
Traffic noise dulled. Conversations blurred. Even the café behind them felt distant, unreal.
Matteo froze.
Aleksander met his gaze with a calm, knowing smile—pleasant on the surface, lethal beneath. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, already ten steps ahead.
"You shouldn't lie to people like me," Aleksander continued evenly. "Especially when you know who I am."
Matteo's throat tightened.
He glanced around quickly—no guards, no black suits, no weapons in sight. Just people sipping coffee, laughing, unaware they were sitting feet away from death.
"I was just doing what I thought was right,"
Matteo said, shifting in his chair, fingers curling against the cold metal. "That's it."
Aleksander tilted his head slightly, studying him like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
"Then perhaps," he said mildly, "you should work on your judgment."
Silence stretched between them.
Long. Taut.
It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to see who would step forward first.
Matteo moved.
He shoved his chair back with a screech of metal and bolted.
The world exploded into motion.
Oh shit—oh shit—oh shit!
His boots pounded against the pavement as he tore down the street, adrenaline roaring in his ears. He dodged between pedestrians, narrowly missing a cyclist, vaulted over a slush-filled curb and sprinted across the road as horns blared behind him.
I'm fucked.
I'm so fucking fucked.
Aleksander didn't chase him.
He remained seated, utterly relaxed.
He reached across the table, picked up Matteo's abandoned coffee, and took a slow sip. His nose wrinkled slightly.
"Hm."
He drank the rest anyway.
"Such a silly zaika," he murmured, eyes following Matteo's retreating figure until he vanished into the crowd.
Aleksander set the empty cup down gently.
A smile curved his lips—genuine this time.
Interest sparked behind his eyes.
"This just got much more interesting."