Few hours ago

Mikhail stepped out the grand yet suffocating hall. He pulls his tie a little as if it's making it hard for him to breathe.

Leonid moved toward the driver’s seat of the black Porsche, but Mikhail raised his hand.

“I want to drive alone today.”

Leonid paused, then gave a respectful nod, stepping back as Mikhail slipped behind the wheel.

It was rare—but whenever it happened, it meant one thing: his demons were louder than usual.

Mikhail started the engine, the low growl of the car matching the one in his chest. The city lights blurred past as he sped through the roads, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting on the gear, veins tight with restrained fury.

His mind replayed Leonid’s words from earlier.

“Someone tried to throw a grenade in our warehouse.”

Fool.

Stupid, desperate fool.

He chuckled—a cold, lethal sound that echoed in the silence of the car.

They never learn.

But they always beg.

And oh, he loved that part. The begging. The crying. The regret.

His eyes darkened with sadistic delight as he imagined the torture—the breaking of bone, the shattering of pride, the final scream before silence.

He pressed harder on the gear.

The Porsche responded like a beast unleashed, slicing through the night.

For a moment, Mikhail wasn’t the feared czar of the underworld.

He was something far worse—

A man with no leash, no conscience, and nothing to lose.

Mikhail’s phone buzzed on the dashboard.

He glanced at it, irritation flickering in his icy eyes as a crease formed between his brows. He picked it up and pressed it to his ear.

Leonid’s voice came through it from the other side—urgent and frantic.

“Czar! Your car’s brakes have failed. The fuel tank is leaking. Don’t slow down, don’t try to pull the brake—it’ll catch fire!”

Mikhail’s fingers clenched tighter around the steering wheel.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp like a blade.

Leonid's voice trembled with urgency.

“I’ve informed our tech team—they’re tracking you now. Just keep going. Whatever you do, just don’t stop.”

Mikhail didn’t respond. He simply ended the call.

The growl of the engine filled the silence. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on the road like a wolf chasing death itself.

This wasn’t the first time someone had tried to end him. Hs have encountered the worst.

Hell, it wouldn’t be the last either.

But if they wanted to take the czar down, they’d have to try harder than this. Explosion? Brake sabotage? Child’s play.

He scoffed darkly.

“Amateurs.”

His mind calculated already He still had a window—a 40% chance of survival if he jumps.

"Stupid fucking piece of shits"

He roared the engine louder and sped up the car more faster, the scenery is  blurring into oblivion.

Then it happened.

The front tires hit a speed breaker with brutal force. The Porsche jolted violently and lost it's balance. The steering wheel jerked from his hands. His body lurched forward as the car twisted in midair—

And then—

Boom.

Metal screamed.

The world flipped.

Glass shattered.

The car rolled—once, twice—before slamming upside down, the frame crushed, smoke started curling from the hood, fuel started to leak more vigorously.

And inside, Mikhail’s eyes are fluttering, blood is tricking down his temple.

His senses were slipping—draining like sand through clenched fists.

The taste of blood was metallic on his tongue, a crimson line trailing down his forehead, into his eye, stinging. Heat pulsed from the leaking tank—he could feel the fire coming. The edges of his vision flickered like static.

And yet, he wasn’t afraid of death.

He had faced it too many times to count. Had looked it in the eye and smirked.

But this time… something was different.

Just before the darkness consumed him, her face appeared in his mind. That veiled face, only her wide, innocent, wickedly beautiful eyes showing. Like a cruel angel in silk. A temptation carved by the devil himself.

She danced behind his eyelids—mocking, mesmerizing.

His fingers twitched. His throat burned.

And in that moment the czar whispered a plea—not to God, whom he never believed in—but to the devil he walked beside every day.

“Let me see her… just once more. Let me touch what has possessed me.”

The world started to blurred.

Then—

A scent.

Lavender.

It poured into his lungs like salvation.

He heard the crunch of glass, the distant ringing of metal. Felt hands tugging at him, soft and frantic. Someone was pulling him out.

His head turned weakly, eyes searching through the haze. The face was a blur… but the silhouette… the scent… the warmth…is it her?

It had to be her.

That nymph.

His fingers reached out—barely able to move—and touched her face with reverence. As if it were marble. As if it might disappear.

And before the darkness claimed him fully, a single word left his blood-stained lips.

“Нимфа…”

(Nymph.)

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Present..

Niamph’s heart thundered like a war drum in her chest.

She had no idea what the man had whispered—something  in Russian, foreign and thick with meaning—but her mind was too scrambled to focus on translations now.

All she could think of was saving him.

“Dear Lord… please help me save him,” she whispered, trembling.

A pair of headlights approached from down the road, the only car she had seen in minutes. Without hesitation, she ran toward the pavement, waving her arms frantically.

The car screeched to a stop.

“Sir, please—please help me! There’s a man—he’s badly injured. We have to get him to the hospital!” Her voice cracked with panic.

The driver leaned out, looked where she pointed—and when he saw the overturned car and the bloodied man slumped near it, he nodded quickly.

Together, they rushed over. He is massive—easily three times of Niamph’s size, his broad frame is like steel beneath his ruined clothes. She scrunched her face, bracing herself, and helped the driver drag his weight. Blood smeared onto her arms, her dress, but she didn’t care.

With a struggle, they managed to ease him into the back seat.

“Drive—please, fast!”

As the driver sped off, Niamph clambered into the back and pressed her handkerchief against the bleeding wound on his side. Her hands were shaking. The blood kept soaking through. It wouldn’t stop.

His eyes fluttered open—just a little.

And for a second, those ice-blue eyes locked onto hers. Deep. Dazed. As if memorizing her face.

She leaned closer, voice soft but firm. “Don’t lose consciousness… we’re almost there, just hang on…”

But before she could say more, his eyelids dropped again. His head rolled slightly, and he fell unconscious.

Niamph gritted her teeth, pressing harder. “Please… please…”

When they reached the hospital, the emergency staff rushed to them. Within seconds, he was on a stretcher and wheeled into the operating room.

Now Niamph stood alone in the hallway, her arms stained with his blood, gasping for air. Her knees felt weak. Her eyes were wide, unblinking.

She clutched her necklace—her fingers trembling—and whispered verses from the Bible under her breath, over and over like a prayer, her gaze locked on the doors of the operation theatre.

A soft voice broke through the anxious silence.

“Ma’am,” a nurse said gently, approaching her, “you should get your wounds dressed too. They look bad.”

Niamph blinked, as if realizing only now the stinging in her arms. She looked down. Her pale skin was marred with angry red scratches and shallow cuts, some still oozing blood. The adrenaline had numbed the pain—until now.

She gave a small nod, her voice caught in her throat. “Okay…”

The nurse led her to a side room and carefully cleaned the wounds, wrapping gauze around her arms. The antiseptic burned  Niamph flinched at the sansation but Her mind wasn’t in pain. It was still with the man she had pulled out of a dying car. The one who had whispered a word that sounded like it belonged in a fairytale.

Was he mistaking her for someone else? Was it delirium?

Once the nurse finished, Niamph returned to the same cold chair outside the operation theatre. The hallway was quiet. The scent of antiseptic filled her lungs. Her hands, now bandaged, clutched her skirt tightly.

Time crawled. Every second felt like a lifetime.

Then—click.

The red light above the operation room door turned off.

The door finally opened, and a doctor stepped out, pulling down his surgical mask. Niamph stood up quickly, holding her breath, her fingers twisting nervously into the fabric of her dress.

"How is he?" she asked, voice trembling.

The doctor removed his gloves, his expression calm but professional.

"The injury was serious," he began, "but the operation was successful. He lost a lot of blood, but thanks to his strong physique and strong adrenaline control due to which he makes it up to here. Right now, he’s under sedation. He should regain consciousness in a few hours."

A wave of relief washed over Niamph. Her knees nearly gave out. She did the cross sign on her chest and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus,” before turning back to the doctor.

"Thank you so much, doctor," she said with heartfelt gratitude.

The doctor gave her a small nod before walking away down the hall.

Niamph looked down at herself—her dress was stained with blood, the dried crimson standing out starkly against the pale fabric. Her arms still ached from the cuts, now bandaged, and her hair was a mess from the chaos. She sighed softly, brushing a strand behind her ear.

“I should go back to the hotel and change,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “He’ll probably be awake by the time I return.”

She cast one last glance toward the room where he was resting. She cast one last glance toward the room where he was resting.

Turning on her heel, she left the hospital, the cold night air greeting her like an old friend.

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Eight-year-old Mikhail sat curled up behind the grand velvet sofa, pressing his small hands tightly over his ears in a desperate attempt to block out the shouting. But no matter how hard he tried, his mother’s trembling voice pierced through the silence he longed for.

“How can you leave today? It’s our son’s birthday!”

Her voice cracked with emotion, filled with disappointment and hurt.

Vladimir’s reply was cold and clipped.

“Stop shouting. I already told him I’d compensate next week when I return.”

Mikhail’s chest tightened. Compensate? What did that even mean? Could love and attention be compensated later, like money?

Katerina’s voice dropped, aching with longing.

“Can’t you stay… for me, at least?”

There was silence for a beat—then his father's sharp tone cut like a blade.

“Don’t dream, Katerina. I married you for the empire. You’ve been a good Czarina, and I appreciate that—but don’t ask for more.”

Mikhail peeked from behind the sofa. His tiny eyes, wide and glossy, watched his father adjust his cufflinks and walk toward the door without a backward glance. His mother stood there, tears rolling freely down her cheeks, fragile and shattered.

“Is it because you still love her?” she cried.

“The one who never even looked back at you?”

The door slammed shut.

Mikhail’s small fingers clenched into fists. His birthday had become just another memory of being forgotten.

Mikhail opened his eyes with a sharp inhale, his breath shallow and strained. The stark white ceiling above him felt unfamiliar, too clean, too sterile. A dull ache pulsed through his skull, and he realized he was hooked to several tubes, with a tight bandage wrapped around his head and chest. His entire body ached, but his mind was racing faster.

A nurse, startled by his sudden movement, quickly approached. But the moment his icy glare met hers, she froze mid-step. That stare—commanding, dangerous, lethal—was enough to silence any words on her tongue.

He sat up slowly, jaw clenched, his muscles protesting but obeying his will.

The nurse's gaze flicked down his torso instinctively—scarred, broad, powerful. How can someone look like this after an accident? she thought, flustered.

He caught her staring.

She dropped her eyes and stammered, "I—I’ll call the doctor right away."

Then she turned and almost ran out of the room.

Mikhail leaned forward slightly, gritting his teeth against the pain. He gripped the edge of the bed with one hand and pressed the other to his temple. His head was pounding—but not just from the injury.

The memories flooded back.

The brakes. The accident.

And… her.

The scent of lavender. The soft touch. The voice that begged him not to lose consciousness. The image of veiled eyes—doe-like, haunting.

"Nymph."

He had whispered it then, not even sure if she was real.

Now the thought burned in his mind like fire licking at old wounds.

"Who the hell was she?" he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse.

He needed to find her.

He needed to find her. Not for gratitude—Mikhail didn’t do gratitude.

No.

He needed her because in that near-death haze, He felt something..... familiar.

The doctor stepped inside the room only to freeze at the sight of Mikhail pulling the IV tubes from his hands. The soft beep of machines warningly spiked.

“Czar, don’t—” he began instinctively, hurrying forward.

Mikhail looked up with a single, sharp raise of his brow.

The rest of the doctor’s words died in his throat.

Of course he knew who the man in front of him was—the Czar. The name that made even hardened criminals tremble. The moment they brought him in, bleeding and unconscious, he had called for immediate surgery. No questions, no forms. Only survival.

Mikhail's voice broke the silence, cold and clipped.

“Who brought me here?”

The doctor straightened. “It was a girl, Czar. We… we don’t know the name. She left before we could ask.”

Mikhail exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching. A curse slipped between his teeth, low and frustrated. He needed to see her face—needed to. But the memory was still a fog, tinted in lavender and panic.

He opened his eyes, pinning the doctor with a stare.

“Give me a cigarette.”

The doctor hesitated. “Czar, you just—”

“I said give it.”

No one disobeyed that tone. Wordlessly, the doctor pulled out his own cigarette pack and handed one over, along with a lighter. Mikhail lit it with a steady hand, inhaling the nicotine as if it could burn away the chaos in his mind.

He leaned back against the pillows, eyes closed, smoke curling from his lips.

“Give me a phone. I have to make a call.”

His voice was calm again—but beneath that calm was the promise of hell.

Whoever tried to kill him had failed.

But whoever saved him…

She had no idea what kind of storm she had dragged herself into.

Mikhail was just about to dial a number when the door flew open with a loud bang.

“Czar!”

Leonid’s voice rang out, urgent yet laced with relief.

Mikhail’s eyes flicked to the doorway, finding Leonid standing there, chest heaving, his usually crisp demeanor ruffled. Behind him, the doctors quickly excused themselves, vanishing from the tension-heavy room.

“Sorry, Czar. We were delayed in tracking you down.”

Mikhail didn’t reply. Instead, he stood and walked toward the washroom, each step echoing power and control despite the pain he must still be enduring.

“Did you bring my clothes?” he asked, without turning.

Leonid nodded and stepped forward with a bag in hand. “Yes, it’s inside.”

Moments later, Mikhail emerged, dressed in a black three-piece suit that clung to him like armor. The pristine fabric contrasted with the faint bandage peeking from beneath his collar. His face is sharp and composed.

Leonid cleared his throat, almost hesitantly this time. “Czar… I found her.”

He stepped f

orward and handed over a small plastic ID card.

Mikhail took it, his fingers cold and precise.

His eyes scanned the name—

Minhat…

And then his gaze dropped to the photograph beside it.

Time paused.

Something shifted in his expression. His jaw tensed, and a dangerous silence settled over him like a storm cloud.

His fingers curled tighter around the card.