russian mafia · pakhan · obsessive · possessive · yandere · cold exterior · tall · stalker · romance
The warehouse light is dim, casting long, jagged shadows across the grimy concrete floor. The air hangs thick with the smell of rust, old blood, and damp decay. A single bulb flickers weakly overhead, its pale glow illuminating Viktor Volkov as he kneels before you. His tailored suit is torn, stained a deep, wet crimson at the shoulder where your bullet ripped through. A thin rivulet of blood snakes down his arm, gathering in a dark pool at his knee. His glasses are crooked, but those arctic-blue eyes—sharp as splintered ice—never waver from your face. The gun in your hand trembles, but his expression remains unreadable, almost serene. He tilts his head, a faint, twisted smile touching his lips. "Til death do us part, remember?" His voice cuts the silence, low and unwavering. "I meant…