MAXIN ROMANOV is surviving — and there is no better word to define his existence.
Even after being abandoned by his mother, becoming the sole witness to his father's murder, and enduring unspeakable abuse in the orphanage, he survives. Maxin endures by instinct.
The very instincts that once made him black out, scrubbing from his mind the image of his father's killer. Still, some nights each month, he wakes up gasping for air.
For Maxin, who grew up alone and locked away his emotions, survival is all that matters. And that truth alone explains why he now stands before the full-length mirror, wearing an outfit that barely conceals his frame.
His fringe is tousled, and his amber eyes glisten with a thin veil of tears. His long lashes tremble faintly, and his perfect lips are tinged with a soft rose hue.
His legs and chest are exposed. He wears a tight black underwear that clings to his hips, and from his back sprout wings that reach just above his shoulder blades.
A golden necklace gleams on his prominent collarbone, glowing against his lightly tanned skin.
"You're certainly one of the most beautiful men this club has ever seen, V."
The voice, thick with veiled intentions, came from a woman in a tight black dress. She wore pointed heels and had straight black hair cascading like silk down her back.
"So beautiful..." Her red-painted nail traced the line of his shoulder and came to rest on his bare chest. "I hope you make me a lot of money tonight."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, fists clenched, ignoring the uncomfortable shiver slithering across his skin.
"The show's about to start. Don't disappoint me."
She planted a kiss on Maxin's lips and vanished through the door. He remained frozen in place, his mind retreating inward, trying to shut out the revulsion he felt toward himself.
"I just saw Yev leave. Did she do something to you?"
Another young man entered the room, wearing a tie beneath his bare chest and khaki pants. It was Jonathan Miller, his presence radiating sensuality and his chiseled features reminiscent of a Greek god. He approached, brows furrowed with concern.
"No. She just complimented me," came Maxin's low, stiff reply.
"You know you don't have to do this, right?" Jonathan looked into his eyes, one hand lightly squeezing his shoulder in a silent offer of comfort.
"It's the only choice I have. I got fired from the diner, and nobody will hire me. I didn't finish high school."
With a heavy sigh, his shoulders trembled from the weight of emotions caged inside his chest. But instead of breaking down, he simply let the warm air slip through parted lips. Gathering himself, Maxin pushed the feeling deep into some hidden part of his being and raised his gaze to Jonathan.
His expression tried its best to mask the storm within. Jonathan stepped back, and Maxin's whiskey-colored eyes returned to the mirror.
He studied his reflection again, straightened his posture, and wore a resilient smile — one that did not reach his eyes. It doesn't matter what I do. I just need to stay alive. With that thought, he turned and left the room.
The club was already buzzing with movement. A restless crowd filled the lounge, eagerly awaiting the show. The lights had dimmed, and only the stage remained aglow.
The air inside was thick — a cocktail of sweat, strong perfume, and bitter spirits.
"Were you all waiting for this?" Yev's voice echoed through the microphone. The crowd erupted.
"Then sit back and relax. Let my boys take care of you tonight!"
Jonathan was the first to appear, swaying his body seductively into the air. The front-row guests went wild, tossing bills toward the stage. Other dancers followed, each with their own allure, drawing gasps and cheers as they moved with fluid, captivating grace.
BUT in the shadows, a woman holding a wine glass remained unmoved. She took a slow sip of the bittersweet drink. Her indifference, however, crumbled when the object of her obsession stepped onto the stage.
Like a fallen angel with wings. Nearly naked, his body moved with deliberate, sensual slowness — caught between sweetness and sin, his energy thick and magnetic, trapping anyone who dared to look at him.
And she nearly surrendered to the dangerous pull of Maxin Romanov, hypnotized by the sway of his hips and the glittering sweat trailing down his lithe abdomen under the stage lights.
"The show's ending. Maxin is heading toward the bar. When he's with you, I'll bring the drinks," Viktor's voice crackled through the flip phone.
"What I'm feeling... it's indescribable," she whispered, entranced.
"Must be joy. After all, today's the big day. The day you kill Maxin Romanov."
NOX walked toward the bar — a tall shelf stretched behind it, stocked with countless bottles of liquor. As she approached, her presence didn't go unnoticed.
Dressed in black and radiating a frigid aura, Nox lived up to her name — like the night itself: cold, quiet, mysterious, and cloaked in danger. She could make anyone uneasy with a mere glance.
People stepped aside as she leaned on the polished dark wood. A quick scan — and there he was. Maxin Romanov, curiously alone.
A jolt of adrenaline surged through her, like the thrill she felt the first time she killed. She didn't understand it. As she moved closer to him, a thought flashed in her mind, urging her to turn back. And for a moment, the assassin nearly obeyed.
But she had no time to retreat. Maxin turned and stood before her, his glowing eyes — made brighter by the sheen of tears — locking onto hers with disarming intensity.
Nox swallowed hard, caught off guard. And then she said something strange, her voice stiff and oddly tender:
"Did you know the AK-47 is one of the most lethal weapons in the world? And also the best-selling?"
Maxin's brow furrowed in confusion. Nox's shoulders tensed, a dull pain settling between her shoulder blades.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Damn it.
She looked anywhere but at the boy in front of her. Seconds passed in awkward silence — until a soft, breathy laugh reached her ears. Somehow, it pierced through the club's thundering music and chatter.
She looked up.
His lips were curved into a smile — one that lit up his entire face and blinded her for a heartbeat. Her chest trembled as he spoke.
"Usually, people say something like: 'You're so beautiful, I want to marry you,' or whatever. It's the first time someone's ever approached me like that."
"Oh..." Snapping out of her trance, Nox tried again, seeking to reclaim her usual composure. "Can I buy you a drink? If you want, I mean." Her hand rubbed the back of her neck, awkward in a way that Maxin found oddly endearing.
"Sure," he replied.
With Maxin's agreement, something in Nox snapped back into place. Her killer instinct returned like an electric charge running through her limbs, grounding her to her purpose. This wasn't over. The plan wasn't ruined — not yet.
As they turned to the bar, Viktor appeared in a bartender's uniform, carrying a silver tray of plastic cups filled with a shimmering blue drink.
"Would you like one?" he asked politely, eyes locking with Maxin's.
"Yes, of course... Do you want one too?" the assassin said quickly, grabbing a cup. Under Viktor's gaze, Maxin hesitated — then gave in.
A faint voice inside warned him: most drinks here are spiked. He ignored it, stretching out a hand for the cup Viktor held out.
He studied the liquid for a beat. Then, with a low sigh, he drank most of it. The two watched in silence.
Viktor drifted away, offering the rest of the drinks to others as part of his cover.
Five minutes passed.
Then Maxin's head began to spin. Weakness crept into his limbs. His legs gave out.
The plastic cup slipped from his hand and fell, unnoticed, to the floor. The liquid splashed over his shoes as his fingers gripped Nox's shoulder, trying to steady himself.
"You..." he rasped, barely audible.
"It is indescribable, what I'm feeling right now," Nox whispered near his ear, her breath tinged with mint brushing his cheek. "If only you knew how long I've waited for this moment..."
"W-who... are you..." His voice faltered as he tried to pull away — but her arm was strong, her body unyielding. The world was blurring.
Maxin was dragged down the corridor leading to the alley behind the club.
His wings were ripped from his back. He slammed against a cold wall.
In the dim light, he saw her eyes gleam with an icy fury — and heard her voice, low and merciless:
"We have unfinished business, don't we... Mr. Romanov?"
His eyes flew open wide.