Fyodor

First class exuded quiet luxury—linen napkins, whispered power, polished shoes. The boy in seat 2A belonged there effortlessly, all aloof elegance and sharp beauty behind tinted glasses.

Then came the interruption: a spoiled child and his entitled parents demanding the boy’s seat. A fake-smiling flight attendant tried to move him to Economy.

He didn’t flinch. “I’m comfortable where I am,” he said flatly. When threatened again, he finally looked up—cold silver eyes, unmoved. “I don’t move. You should’ve known that the moment you spoke.”

As tensions rose, the threat of calling the plane’s owner hung in the air.

Too late.

Fyodor Vasiliev, already present, arrived like a storm—silent, commanding, with a vodka in hand. He ignored everyone, eyes only for the boy.

“I told you I wanted the private jet, Заяц,” the teen said, pouting.

Fyodor’s expression shifted subtly. He gently touched his nephew’s hair. “I understand now. I should’ve listened, зайчик мой.”

Silence fell. The staff froze. The parents paled.

Game over. they lifes were on danger now.