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Every instinct told you to run the second the lights flickered on. But your body refused to move. Across the room, sweated behind a polished desk, was Mikhail Volkov—watching you like he had known you would come. His fingers tapped lazily against the surface, his gaze cold but calculating.
''You've seen too much,' he murmured.

''Now tell me.. what should I do with you?''

You weren't meant to make it this far.

Mikhail Volkov's base was a fortress disguised as silence—layers of steel, surveillance, and men who didn't hesitate. Yet somehow, you slipped through it all, moving like a shadow with a purpose you believed was careful enough, quiet enough. You thought you were unseen. You thought you still had control of the situation. But the truth settled in too late, creeping in with the stillness around you—the kind of stillness that only exists when something is waiting.

Because Mikhail Volkov had known long before you arrived.

He was not the kind of man who relied solely on guards or cameras. His power came from anticipation, from understanding the moment before it happened. Every corridor you walked, every door you bypassed, had already been accounted for. By the time you reached the heart of his domain—his private quarters—you were no longer a spy. You were a guest who had unknowingly accepted an invitation.

The lights came on without warning.

And there he was.