Chapter Text
Moscow wore winter like a crown.
Snow blanketed the city in relentless white, swallowing sidewalks, softening rooftops, and muting the sound of traffic into a distant hum. The air bit at exposed skin with surgical precision. Breath fogged and disappeared like secrets no one wanted to keep.
Inside a small café tucked between a pharmacy and a tailor shop, Seo Beom-gyu stood at the counter, gloved fingers curled around a paper cup of black coffee.
“Спасибо,” he said politely, his accent careful but not flawless.
He stepped aside, checking the time on his phone.
8:12 a.m.
His expression tightened.
“No… no, I’ll miss the tram again.”
The words slipped out under his breath before he could stop them.
The last time he missed it, he had waited in the cold for nearly an hour, fingers numb, schedule ruined, patience thinned to nothing. He did not have the luxury of being late. Not in Moscow. Not when every hour here felt borrowed.
I have to finish this contract. I have to close this case. I have to go back to Korea.
The thought burned hotter than the coffee in his hand.
He pushed through the café door and into the snowfall.
Cold air struck his porcelain skin instantly, but Beom-gyu barely flinched. He adjusted the strap of his leather bag and broke into a run, boots slicing cleanly through the snow.
“Shit. I’m late.”
His long black hair, loosely tied into a messy bun, shifted with the wind. A few strands escaped, falling into his eyes. His grey irises flashed with irritation.
I should focus. Running while distracted is inefficient.
He turned sharply at the corner of the block.
And collided straight into something solid.
Crash.
The world tilted. The cup flew from his hand, hot coffee arcing through the air before splattering violently against the snow in a dark stain.
“Ugh—!”
His foot slipped on the ice.
For a split second, gravity claimed him—
Then an arm wrapped around his waist.
Firm. Warm. Unyielding.
Beom-gyu’s eyes snapped open.
He found himself inches away from a face that did not belong to winter.
Tan skin, almost glowing against the grey morning. Green-hazel eyes that gleamed like something pulled from deep water. A buzz cut dyed pale blonde, snowflakes melting against it. Piercings caught the light — eyebrow, nose, metal flashing with deliberate defiance.
A thick grey fur coat draped across broad shoulders, luxurious and theatrical against the bleak street.
He looked less like a man who had stepped out of a shop—
And more like someone who had stepped off a runway.
Dimples appeared as the stranger smiled.
And then it hit him.
The scent.
Subtle at first. Warm. Spiced. Something beneath it — something reptilian and electric.
It slithered through the air and wrapped around Beom-gyu’s senses before he could block it.
A snake hybrid.
Not fully. There was something heavier beneath the scent. Something older. Thick like river water.
Crocodile.
“Hey,” the man said, voice deep, threaded with a thick Russian accent. “Are you hurt?”
Beom-gyu realized he was still being held.
“N-no… I’m fine.”
His face heated — and he despised that it did.
The stranger’s grip lingered half a second longer than necessary before easing, though his hand remained at Beom-gyu’s waist as if testing balance.
His gaze dropped briefly to the ruined coffee bleeding into the snow.
“I can get you a new one,” he offered smoothly. “My apology.”
“No. It’s fine.” Beom-gyu straightened, brushing imaginary snow from his coat. “But… you can let go now.”
The man laughed softly, low and amused, and released him.
Beom-gyu stepped back immediately, creating distance. He bowed slightly out of habit.
“I should have been more careful. I hope you aren’t injured.”
The man tilted his head as if studying a rare animal.
“I’m very fine,” he replied.
There was something about the way he said it — slow, deliberate.
“Well then, I should—”
A hand reached forward.
Without warning, the stranger brushed a stray strand of hair from Beom-gyu’s eyes.
The contact was light.
Intimate.
Uninvited.
“You should wear glasses,” the man said, smirking faintly. “It snows here a lot. And I heard strong ultraviolet rays…” His eyes flickered with amusement. “…can cause loss of eyesight.”
Beom-gyu stared at him.
Then calmly slapped his hand away.
“Thank you for your concern,” he replied evenly. “But I assure you my vision is perfectly functional.”
He adjusted his bag.
“I am in a hurry. Excuse me.”
He stepped around him and walked away without looking back.
He did not run.
Running would imply fluster.
He would not grant that satisfaction.
Behind him, green-hazel eyes tracked the controlled sway of his movement.
The stranger’s lips curved slowly.
“Nice ass,” he murmured under his breath.
His phone began to ring.
He answered without looking away.
“Да, Саша… ах да, я иду.”
(Yes, Sasha… ah yes, I’m coming.)
His gaze followed the pale figure disappearing into snowfall.
“Я только что наткнулся на очень горячего снежного барса.”
(I just ran into a very hot snow leopard.)
A pause.
A low chuckle.
“Нет, не волнуйся.”
(No, don’t worry.)
His eyes gleamed, something sharp beneath the humor.
“Он ещё не знает, кто я.”
(He doesn’t know who I am yet.)
The call ended.
Snow continued to fall.
And somewhere ahead, Seo Beom-gyu felt something unfamiliar coil low in his chest.
Not attraction.
Not fear.
Recognition.
By the time Beom-gyu reached his apartment building, the sky had deepened into a pale iron grey. Snow clung stubbornly to his coat and hair, dusting his shoulders like powdered glass.
The building itself was old but dignified, brick darkened by decades of Moscow winters. The stairwell smelled faintly of metal radiators and cabbage soup. Familiar. Stable. Temporary.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
“I’m home.”
His voice was calm, stripped of the city’s edge.
Warmth embraced him immediately. The small apartment was modest but carefully kept. Shoes aligned neatly by the door. Coats hung in disciplined order. The faint bubbling sound of something simmering in the kitchen.
“Ah, Beom-gyu, welcome home.”
His aunt emerged from the kitchen holding a ladle, steam curling around her like soft fog. Her hair was tied back, apron slightly dusted with flour.
“Thank you,” he replied, slipping off his boots and placing them precisely in their spot. He removed his coat, hung it on the rack, then placed his leather bag on the table with equal care.
Routine grounded him.
“How did everything go?” she asked, returning to the stove.
“Everything went well. We settled the preliminary issues.” He poured himself a glass of water, drinking slowly. “I’m just tired.”
That much was true.
Not physically.
Mentally.
“Oh, that’s a relief.” She nodded, but her shoulders did not relax. “Yuri came by today.”
Beom-gyu paused mid-swallow.
“I see.”
His aunt sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken worry.
“It’s not going to be easy, is it?”
Silence stretched for a moment, thick but not uncomfortable. Beom-gyu set the glass down carefully.
“I’m going to drop by Mr. Balov’s office tomorrow,” he said evenly. “Please don’t worry too much.”
He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, expression unreadable.
“I’ll go upstairs early.”
His aunt watched him as he turned away, concern lingering in her eyes. She knew that tone. It meant he had already calculated the risks and chosen to walk toward them anyway.
Beom-gyu moved down the narrow hallway toward his room.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath his weight.
Yuri.
A koala hybrid. Gentle. Soft-spoken. He lived on the third floor. His factory — small but stable — had been his life’s devotion. He had built it with careful patience, reinvesting every profit, never cutting corners.
And now it was slipping.
Boris Balov.
A tiger hybrid.
City councilor.
Ambitious.
Predatory in a different way.
“To think he’s trying to seize the factory with such a ridiculous document,” Beom-gyu muttered under his breath as he entered his room and shut the door behind him.
The click of the lock sounded louder than usual.
He loosened his tie and sank into his desk chair, the leather cool beneath his palms.
There must be someone backing him.
Balov was arrogant, yes. But not reckless. Not without protection.
There’s a good chance the mafia is involved.
The thought settled like ice in his veins.
Especially since Balov held public office. A councilor entangled with organized crime would not move without assurance of immunity.
The mafia here was not small-time extortion.
It was structural.
Layered.
Invisible until it wasn’t.
“I knew it,” he exhaled quietly, leaning back in his chair. “It won’t be as easy as I expected.”
Snow tapped faintly against the window.
His grey eyes drifted to the glass, watching flakes blur into each other.
And for a fleeting second—
Green-hazel eyes flashed in his mind.
The warmth of a hand at his waist.
The scent in the cold air.
He frowned.
Coincidence.
Just a stranger.
Moscow was full of hybrids.
Full of predators.
He stood and untied his hair, dark strands falling over his shoulders like ink spilling across porcelain. He retied it higher this time, tighter. A subtle shift in mood.
Focus mode.
He opened Yuri’s case file and spread the documents across his desk.
The contract Balov presented was legal on the surface.
But something about it felt…
Manufactured.
Too clean.
Like claws carefully sheathed.
Beom-gyu’s pupils narrowed slightly.
“If there is someone behind you,” he murmured to the empty room, “I will find them.”
Snow leopards did not hunt loudly.
They hunted precisely.
Outside, somewhere across the city, a man with green-hazel eyes laughed softly at something someone said.
The pieces were already moving.
Neither of them knew just how quickly the board would narrow.
BANG.
The sound cracked through the warehouse like a whip.
Dust trembled from the steel beams overhead. The smell of oil and rust mingled with the sharper scent of gunpowder.
“AAAH— PLEASE! PLEASE!” the man screamed, voice splintering into something unrecognizable. He was on his knees, wrists bound, expensive coat soaked in melted snow and panic. “I’m begging you! Ask the Khozyain for forgiveness! Please! I don’t want to die!”
His words dissolved into sobbing.
The men standing around him did not react.
They wore dark coats. Gloves. Faces impassive.
Another shot rang out.
BANG.
The screaming stopped.
Silence reclaimed the space with brutal efficiency.
Outside the warehouse, parked beneath a flickering industrial streetlamp, sat a matte black BMW 7 Series.
Engine running.
Windows tinted.
Inside, warmth hummed softly through the leather interior.
The air smelled faintly of expensive cigar smoke—
And bubble gum.
In the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, sat Evgeny Volkov-Karsin.
Khozyain.
Owner.
The next head of the Volkov Syndicate.
He wore heeled black boots, polished to a mirror sheen. Slim-cut trousers. A silk shirt open just enough to reveal inked skin beneath. Rings glinted on long fingers tipped with black-painted nails.
His buzzed blond hair caught the dim ambient light. A small silver hoop pierced his eyebrow. Another at his nose. His tongue shifted slightly against the piercing inside his mouth as he blew a slow, deliberate bubble.
Pop.
He took another drag from his cigar.
Exhaled.
Smoke curled lazily around his sharp cheekbones.
His green-hazel eyes were half-lidded, unreadable.
In the front passenger seat sat Alexei.
Leopard hybrid.
Efficient.
Usually confident.
Tonight, less so.
The gunshots echoed faintly even through the reinforced glass.
Alexei swallowed.
He could feel it.
That silence.
When Zhenya was loud, laughing, theatrical — that was easy.
When he was quiet?
That was when bones broke.
Uhhh… he isn’t saying anything.
A bead of sweat slid down Alexei’s temple.
Did I keep him waiting too long?
Zhenya tapped ash neatly into a crystal tray mounted discreetly into the car door.
“Что случилось с Баловым?” he asked at last, voice smooth.
What happened to Balov?
Alexei straightened immediately.
“A-Ah… it’s going well. As expected,” he replied quickly. “There’s some resistance, but it’s progressing as fast as possible.”
His words felt thin in the confined space.
Zhenya chewed his gum slowly.
“This is taking longer than expected.”
He did not raise his voice.
He did not look angry.
That made it worse.
“My apologies, Khozyain,” Alexei said, bowing his head slightly.
Zhenya uncrossed his legs, leaning forward just enough that the dim light caught his eyes.
Predatory.
Cold.
“It seems an unexpected variable has appeared on Yuri’s end,” Alexei continued carefully.
Zhenya’s eyebrow lifted.
“Variable?”
The single word hung in the air.
“Yes. A lawyer.” Alexei hesitated. “A foreign one.”
Zhenya leaned back again, gaze drifting lazily toward the tinted window as if contemplating snowfall instead of strategy.
“A foreigner?” he repeated.
“Korean. Snow leopard hybrid.”
The chewing stopped.
Just for a second.
Alexei noticed.
“He arrived recently,” Alexei went on. “His name is Seo Beom-gyu. Clean record. Impressive litigation history. Quiet. Difficult to read. He’s already identified irregularities in the acquisition documents.”
Zhenya’s tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek.
Snow leopard.
A faint smile curved his lips.
“How interesting.”
Alexei blinked.
“I can have him pressured,” he offered quickly. “Discredit him. Intimidation. It would not be difficult.”
Zhenya’s gaze snapped forward.
Sharp now.
“No.”
The word sliced.
Alexei froze.
“Do not touch him.”
There was no hesitation.
No theatrics.
Just command.
Zhenya shifted, adjusting his fur coat lazily around his shoulders.
“Let him work,” he said, voice softer now. Almost amused. “I want to see what he does.”
Alexei frowned slightly.
“Khozya—”
Green-hazel eyes flicked toward him.
Instant silence.
Zhenya smiled faintly.
“Balov is greedy,” he murmured. “Greedy men panic when challenged.”
He popped another bubble.
Pop.
“If the snow leopard claws at him, I will see how sharp they are.”
He tapped his nail against the leather armrest thoughtfully.
“And if he proves interesting…”
His smile deepened.
“Then we adjust.”
Outside, one of the warehouse doors opened. A subordinate approached the car, nodding once to indicate the matter had been handled.
Zhenya did not look.
“Dispose of it cleanly,” he said casually.
The man bowed and retreated.
Alexei shifted, still uneasy.
“You’ve met him?” he asked cautiously.
Zhenya’s eyes flickered with something almost playful.
“Briefly.”
A pause.
“He has terrible peripheral vision.”
Alexei did not understand.
But he knew better than to ask.
Zhenya looked down at his phone, scrolling lazily through messages before locking the screen.
“Cancel tomorrow morning’s meeting,” he said. “I have somewhere to be.”
“Where, Khozyain?”
Zhenya’s smile returned, slow and dangerous.
“Mr. Balov’s office.”
The engine purred as the car began to move.
Inside the BMW, warmth remained steady.
Outside, Moscow swallowed another secret whole.
The office of Councillor Boris Balov was designed to intimidate.
Dark mahogany desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a snow-drowned Moscow. Heavy curtains the color of dried blood. Framed photographs of political handshakes lining the walls like trophies.
But at this moment, none of it felt powerful.
“Khozyain, I need a straight answer!”
Balov’s voice cracked across the room, louder than necessary, betraying more fear than authority.
“That lawyer! That damn lawyer has been digging into everything! He’s filed three objections in two days! He’s requesting documentation I— I don’t even know how he found! Are you going to leave it like this? Don’t you think things are progressing slower than agreed?!”
Across the room, leaning lazily against the desk as though this were a mild inconvenience rather than a crisis, stood Evgeny Volkov-Karsin.
He wore a charcoal suit tailored to perfection, the cut accentuating long lines and deliberate elegance. Heeled boots clicked softly against the polished floor as he shifted his weight. A pale silk shirt lay open at the throat, revealing a glimpse of dark ink against tan skin.
He took a slow drag of his cigar.
Exhaled.
Smoke coiled upward like a living thing.
“Councillor Balov,” Zhenya said smoothly, pressing the cigar into the crystal tray with slow precision, “is this why you urgently requested I cancel my meeting?”
His green-hazel eyes lifted.
“I am a very busy person.”
He pushed off the desk.
“Just to watch you whine like a little bitch?”
Balov’s face flushed deep red.
“You—!”
But Zhenya was already moving.
Not fast.
Not rushed.
Just… advancing.
Predators did not hurry prey.
“Since you insisted this was merely a lawyer,” Zhenya continued conversationally, boots echoing softly across the room, “why are you so tense?”
Balov instinctively stepped backward.
Zhenya stepped forward.
“THEN THERE’S NO NEED TO BE NERVOUS.”
Another step.
Balov’s shoulders brushed the wall.
He hadn’t realized how far he’d retreated.
“I never accept deals I cannot take responsibility for in the first place,” Zhenya said quietly now, voice lowering, thickening.
His presence shifted.
The playful cruelty drained away.
What remained was colder.
“I’ll consider my father’s old times,” he added, almost thoughtfully. “So…”
His hand shot forward.
Long black-painted nails curved as his fingers clamped onto Balov’s jaw.
“Stop. Whining.”
His grip tightened.
Not enough to draw blood.
Enough to hurt.
Claws pressed into soft flesh, leaving faint crescents in the councillor’s cheeks.
Zhenya leaned in close.
Balov could see the flecks of gold inside his green eyes.
There was no anger there.
Only calculation.
“You are useful,” Zhenya murmured. “Do not mistake that for importance.”
Balov’s breathing turned shallow.
His bladder felt terrifyingly unreliable.
And then—
BANG.
The office doors burst open.
The assistant stumbled inside, pale and trembling.
“M-my apologies for the interruption! A— a visitor has dropped by!”
Balov snarled, humiliation compounding his fear.
“What?! A visitor? Now?! I’ll be done soon, so go back!”
The assistant did not move.
Because someone had stepped in behind him.
And gently pushed him aside.
“Although they came without telling me…”
The voice was calm.
Cool.
Polished.
“You’re not going to kick me out, are ya?”
Boots stepped across the threshold.
“As long as you live in the city, you’re entitled to meet with your councillor.”
Seo Beom-gyu entered the room like winter itself had decided to attend the meeting.
Long black hair tied into a controlled bun. Grey eyes steady, unreadable. Pale skin almost luminous against the dark interior.
He wore a fitted black coat, gloves in one hand, a leather folder tucked neatly beneath his arm.
He did not look at Zhenya first.
He looked at Balov.
Then at the hand gripping Balov’s face.
Then at the man attached to it.
Recognition flickered for half a second.
Gone just as quickly.
Zhenya released Balov slowly.
Deliberately.
As if he had never been exerting pressure at all.
Balov stumbled sideways, gulping air.
“Excuse me,” Beom-gyu said politely.
He stepped fully into the office now, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”
He inclined his head slightly.
“I am Attorney Seo Beom-gyu.”
And then—
He smiled.
Not warmly.
Not nervously.
A small, sharp curve of the lips that did not reach his eyes.
Zhenya watched him.
And this time—
He did not smile at all.