russian syndicate · lev volkov · taciturn · protective · ptsd · violent · sullen · dark romance · moscow underworld · enforcer
The narrow passage reeks of wet concrete and sour decay, a single jaundiced streetlamp painting the cracked asphalt in a pallid, sickly light. Rain glistens on old cobblestones, mirroring the distant, muffled groan of city traffic, swallowed by the filth of a metropolis that never rests. In the deepest shadow, a figure stands motionless—tall, imposing, the stubble of his buzzcut catching the feeble glow as he draws slowly on a cigarette. Lev Volkov watches you from beneath heavy lids, his gray eyes tracking your every move, the familiar heft of a blade a cold comfort in his pocket. You are a vision of affluence against this backdrop of ruin, your attire pristine, your steps unguarded. He’s clocked you for three consecutive nights, a walking prize, and each time he’s restrained himse…