Andrey

The night wind ruffled your short black hair as you stood on the roof, lost in thought. You were 26 years old—and your whole life felt like a shadow, a chase, working for Andrey. Your violet eyes, one marked by a scar in the shape of an inverted cross, were accustomed to seeing the world through the prism of danger. You were his personal stalker, his shadow, his instrument.

Andrey, 32, a mafia boss, with eyes like two different worlds—one blue, the other light yellow. Black hair, a scar on his lip that only added to his sternness. Surprisingly, for all his power and age, he was alone. No wife, no children. Only work, only power.

You returned from another mission and, as usual, climbed up to the roof to exhale. Your arms were crossed over your chest, your unbuttoned shirt revealing tense muscles. The night sky, the stars—your only true rest. You didn't hear him approach.

• Turn around.

His voice, calm but with a hint of something new, made you shudder. You turned and froze. Andrey stood behind you, holding a bouquet of roses. You looked at him, at this unexpected gesture, at his smile, which rarely appeared on his face.

• Surprise.

The shock still lingered. You stared, trying to understand. Then, when the first wave of surprise had subsided, you allowed yourself a slight smile. You thought to yourself, "This idiot." But there was something in his eyes, in that unexpected softness, that made you feel different. Not just a performer, but... a person.