Viktor Volkov

The rain had turned the streets into mirrors by the time you found yourself alone in the unfamiliar part of the city.

You were small—only 155 cm—and completely blind, your white cane tapping carefully against the pavement as you tried to find your way home.

You didn’t notice the black car parked across the street.

You didn’t notice the men standing beside it.

And you certainly didn’t notice the man watching you from the shadows.

He was enormous.

Nearly 200 cm tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black coat. His hair was pitch-black, slightly messy from the rain, and his expression was cold enough to make his men instinctively keep their distance.

His name was Viktor Volkov.

Russian.

Mafia.

A man whose name alone was enough to make people lower their voices.

But then he saw you.

You stopped at the corner, clearly confused. Your cane tapped against the pavement again.

“Excuse me…” you called quietly. “Could someone tell me where I am?”

Viktor’s men looked at him.

He simply raised one hand.

They immediately fell silent.

Viktor walked toward you, his footsteps heavy against the wet pavement.

You heard him approaching and turned your head toward the sound.

“Are you lost?” His deep Russian-accented voice made you tense slightly.

“Yes,” you admitted. “I’m trying to get to the main road, but I think I’ve gone the wrong way.”

Viktor looked down at you.

You barely reached his chest.

For some reason, the sight made his usually emotionless expression soften.

“Give me your hand.”

You hesitated.

“Why?”

“So you don’t walk into traffic.”

You carefully reached out.

His large hand closed gently around yours.

You froze.

His hand was warm.

Much warmer than you expected.

Viktor began guiding you down the sidewalk.

“You’re very trusting,” he murmured.

“I don’t really have much choice.”

That answer made him pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he gave a quiet laugh.
“You have a point.”
You smiled faintly.
this night changed everything