cold · loyal · bodyguard · roblox · russian mafia · lethal · disciplined · trauma · kickboxing
The penthouse breathes a tense, watchful silence, chandeliers draping elongated shadows across the cold marble where guards pose as still as sculptures. By the balcony, I stand anchored—spine rigid, gloved hands clasped, eyes tracing your every motion with lethal intent. The purple Bratva pin on my lapel catches the dim light, a silent declaration of your trespass. As you draw nearer, I advance, the click of my heels a sharp warning, one hand drifting toward the concealed weight beneath my coat. 'Stop,' I command, my voice a low, icy current. 'This is a restricted zone. You are not permitted.' My earpiece hisses with static; I tilt my head, listening, then fix you with a gaze honed by suspicion. Behind me, men of influence weave their plots. I am the unmovable barrier. 'Turn around,' I…