#cna x reader

Zhenya x reader (fl)

Code Name Anastasia

Being ugly means no one being interested in you. That’s the great thing of agency. But you have a secret to conceal what’s underneath.

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four

Contains: Spy Thriller | Psychological | Dark Romance | non-consensual | unbothered Queen🧎‍♀️‍➡️😭

The cold wind of Moscow bit at your cheeks, sharp even through the thermal layers of your coat. You moved quietly down the frozen corridor of the old military outpost, your footsteps muffled but trailing steadily behind Taekjoo. The mission was clear: infiltrate and investigate the weapon project codenamed Anastasia—a rumored weapon of mass destruction, said to possess the potential to shift the global power balance entirely.

Taekjoo arrived under disguise; you, on the other hand, came as yourself. His alias: Sakamoto Hiro. His fabricated identity was flawless, right down to the surgically-altered face. You barely recognized him when he first stepped off the plane.

Then there was Agent Zhenya—Pskih Gogdanov—FSB’s ghost in human form. Pale, tall, winter-eyed. A man carved straight from Russian frost. You and Taekjoo had been warned: be careful with him.

He was the Kremlin’s reluctant offering to your mission.

Taekjoo first encountered him in the elevator of the Moscow field office. His phone pinged with a new report—the assigned contact. He tapped the screen, expecting a name and a cold file photo. Instead, he froze.

Behind him, a voice hummed low. “Hm?”

Taekjoo turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. The man standing there met his gaze with a knowing smirk.

“That’s me,” he said.

Zhenya paid you no attention.

His focus was on Taekjoo.

You’d watched the tension bloom—suspicious, cold, competitive. They clashed like cats and dogs: blunt reports, clipped tones, glares that could kill. But then came the whispers. Shared glances that lingered too long. The quiet orbit they began to fall into, unspoken but palpable.

You’d seen what you weren’t supposed to.

A door left slightly ajar. The sound of breathlessness. A flash of skin slick with sweat. Your breath had caught—and you’d left, quiet as always.

They never knew you saw.

But then again, they never noticed you at all.

Why would they?

To them, you were forgettable. At best. Ugly, some had joked in passing. The scars, the uneven skin, the unremarkable features—just part of the illusion.

The scars on your face, the asymmetry, the dull skin—all part of the carefully built illusion. Your mask, custom-made with surgical detail, fit so well even you sometimes forgot what lay underneath.

That mask had been your shield—given to you by the Director after you agreed to one favor. Just one.

You still remembered that night. You’d just turned twenty. A desperate request to join the agency, a reckless promise to do anything. You hadn't cried. You just laid there, numb, as his cold hands touched skin no one had before.

The next morning, the mask was given to you in a velvet-lined case. And an identity forged.

Before all of this, you had been soft. Soft in the way people wanted to bruise. Your face had been the kind that made grown men stupid. Large, dewy eyes that tilted down at the edges like you were always on the verge of crying. Rose-petal lips that curved gently, always parted just slightly. The skin of your cheeks had been like milk steeped in blush.

Your mother used to keep your hair pinned up tight, put hats on your head, told you never to meet men’s eyes. You had seen too much too early. The neighbor who stared too long. The teacher who tried to touch your thigh. The man on the subway. And your mother, who never let go of your hand until you were inside your bedroom with the door locked.

So when the agency offered the mask, you didn’t say no.

No one looked at you like that anymore.

No one tried to claim you.

You had made yourself invisible.

They didn’t know you had a separate room. One built into the foundation of the old Russian military base. It had been offered as part of the Director’s generosity—"A girl like you needs privacy,” he’d said, smiling too wide.

That night, you returned alone. Your footsteps light on the concrete.

You closed the thick steel door, locked it behind you, and finally—finally—took the mask off.

It always ached a little. Pulling away the skin-like adhesive, peeling off the second face you wore like armor. Your real face breathed. You blinked, your lashes long, your skin glowing pale and soft under the flickering yellow lights.

You sat in front of the mirror. Naked-faced, finally human. You rubbed your cheeks gently, trying to revive the blood flow. Your lips trembled a little. Not because you were cold. But because you could feel yourself again.

You thought you were alone.

But from the second you took off the mask, a small camera lens—tucked inside the ventilation panel in the corner of the room—flicked on silently.

And far down the hall, a certain agent named Zhenya stared at his wrist monitor, stunned.

Zhenya didn’t say anything the next day. Not to you. Not to anyone.

But you caught it.

The hesitation in his gaze when you passed him in the hallway.

The slight furrow between his brows when you turned away too quickly.

His usual confidence was still there—he still flirted with Taekjoo, still teased him in Russian under his breath—but something shifted.

He looked at you, now.

Not like the others. Not with hunger or lust.

With curiosity. Like he had seen a ghost.

Like he had a secret.

You didn’t confront him. You were used to being watched. Your whole life had been surveillance, expectation, threat.

But you noticed the changes.

Zhenya started standing closer. Walking with you down corridors without saying much. Once, he passed you a mug of coffee without looking at you, but it was exactly the kind you liked. You hadn’t told anyone.

He started staying behind during debriefs. Just long enough to glance at you when no one else was looking.

And then, one night, as snowstorm raged outside the base, he found you alone in the strategy room.

“Do you know what Anastasia means in Russian?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer. You watched the snow fall against the window.

“__.”

You turned to look at him.

And for the first time, he met your eyes—not with pity, not with lust. But with something quieter. Like he was seeing the beginning of a story.

Not an agent.

Not a weapon.

Not a mask.

Just you.

Zhenya x reader

Code Name Anastasia

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four

Being ugly means no one being interested in you. That’s the great thing of agency. But you have a secret to conceal what’s underneath.

Contains: Spy Thriller | Psychological | Dark Romance | non-consensual | force | dark-twist | manipulation | child ab@se | bothered Queen🧎‍♀️‍➡️😭

The message was sent.

Encrypted, encoded, and traced through a dozen digital dead ends. The information you pulled from Borodin’s lips—names, phrases, whispered mentions of Project Anastasia—was out of your hands now.

Package received. Await further instruction. Rest.

You stared at that last word again.

Rest.

You turned everything off for the night.

The lights. The monitors. The comms.

Even the handheld tracker slipped into a drawer and locked with a code only you knew. Just in case. But the mask stayed on. You didn’t take chances.

You stripped down, changed into an old loose nightgown, and sat on the edge of your bed with a silent breath. For the first time in hours, the room was quiet. Safe.

Then your monitor lite up on its own. A file opened before you could move:
WINTRLIGHT_C14

You froze. The video started—low quality, slight static—but unmistakable. You.

Facing the mirror, fingers trembling, as you peeled off your mask for the first time that night. No disguise. Just skin and breath and the sound of your own heartbeat. Then you slid it back on. Swiftly. Automatically. Like muscle memory.

You remembered that night. You just stared at your own face for two seconds too long.

Someone had been watching.

Your stomach turned.

And before you could react, before your hand could even reach the power button—

A voice behind you.

“Sloppy.”

You whipped around.

Zhenya stood by the wall, leaning against the cold steel of the frame like he’d always belonged there. Not a knock. Not a sound when he entered. Just… appearing.

You shot to your feet. “What the hell are you doing—”

“You knew there were cameras,” he said, voice flat. “Or you thought you did. But not this one.”

You stared at him, jaw clenched.

“That video means nothing,” you spat. “It could be anyone—”

“You’re lying to my face,” he snapped.

No warmth. No room for negotiation.

You took a step back.

“I told you. It’s not me.”

He tilted his head slightly. Then lifted a remote from his pocket and pressed something.

Another screen—one you never knew existed—lit up on your far wall.

A hidden panel slid open with a mechanical hiss. Cold, sterile light filled the space.

And on the screen:

You again.
In a silk dress.
On the bed.
Mask long gone on the floor.

Your body partially reclined. The man you investigated—Borodin—trailing his hand along your thigh, fingers possessive. Your lips parted, eyes half-lidded, whispering something in a voice designed to lure.

Zhenya stood beside the screen, arms crossed.

You stared in horror.

“Delete it.”

“Why?” he asked, voice dry. “Afraid someone might mistake it for consent?”

You snapped. “I was undercover.”

“So was I.”

You turned toward him, fury rising. “Don’t compare—”

“You let him touch you,” Zhenya said, stepping forward now. “You let him licked your back.”

Your face twisted. “Shut your mouth—”

“You let him put his hands on you. Let him drag his mouth along your body like you belonged to him.”

Your stomach curled.

“I had to get information—”

“And when I touched your back at the party?” he cut in, voice suddenly sharp. “When I reached for your glass? You flinched. You whispered ‘Please don’t, sir.’”

He took another step. You didn’t move.

“You wouldn’t even look at me.”

Another step.

“But him?” His voice turned low. Mean. “You smiled. You moaned.”

Your jaw clenched. “It wasn’t real.”

“Oh,” he murmured.

Your hand reached for the monitor—he caught your wrist. You struggled. Fought to yank free. But Zhenya was fast.

Too fast.

His hand gripped your arm and spun you, pinning you harshly to the cold wall. Your chest hit the wall first, a sharp breath escaping your lips as your legs tried to stabilize—but he was already behind you, keeping you in place with his body.

“You don’t get to act like a victim,” he murmured near your ear. “You played him like a whore. And now you’re pretending to be clean?”the words echoed through you head. You snarled. “Let me go!”

“Make me.”

You twisted, kicked—useless.

He grabbed both your arm above your head with one arm as the other yanked at the edge of your mask. His thigh pressed against your straining you against any movement.

“No—”

Too late.

He tore it off.

You gasped—breathless, exposed, but he didn’t hesitate.

Then he pulled off the wig cap that had been holding your hair in place. Gracefully strands of (h/c) tumbled down like waterfall.

He grab your chin towards him—

His mouth crashed against yours. There was nothing soft about it. It was harsh.

His hands were everywhere—your neck, your waist, your hips—groping like he had the right to search every inch of the body he saw on that tape.

You shoved, clawed, bit down on his lip—but it only made him smirk. His grip tightened, hand sliding under your shirt like he was searching for shame he could touch.

You jerked your head away. “Why are you doing this—!”

He’d only stayed silent.

His fingers slid down again. Over skin you didn’t want touched.

“Zhenya—stop.”

He didn’t.

Not until he felt it—you trembling. Not from arousal.

He finally pulled back, but only barely. His thumb brushed your lower lips—plump, wet.

“You’re weak,” he said, tone as sharp as glass. “And for someone so clever, you’ve made it easy.”

Your eyes burned as tear filled up.

Because it was true.

Because this wasn’t about the mission anymore.

And somewhere in your mind—deep, buried—you saw something.

A memory.

While your lips were still swollen with his taste and your hands were shaking from the force of him.

Zhenya straightened his coat like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just pressed every part of you you’d never let anyone near.

Then he turned to leave.

He left your mask on the floor.

Didn’t bother picking it up.

Didn’t say another word.

And once the door shut—

You finally slid to the floor, cold, breathless, silent.

The video still playing in the background.

You. Laughing. Luring. With his hands on your skin.

You hold your hands to yourself, as if embracing yourself from this cruelty. Tears kept collecting from your eyes, blurring you vision until the world faded into soft outlines.

Theough that blur, memory surface—fragile, distant, yet achingly vivid.

You remembered the creak of wooden floorboards beneath your small feet. The peeling wallpaper. The way wind would slip through the cracked window panes. The old rented apartment—too cold in winter, too hot in summer—was all you had. But it was enough to live.

You could still hear her humming, her voice soft, as she lulled you to sleep. Your mother had once been beautiful. She still was—

To your eyes, atleast. 
She was a principal ballerina in your hometown—graceful, revered, the pride of the local theatre. Rising from dirt floors and calloused feet, she had earned everything with sheer will and aching bones. And she was supposed to go to the Soviet. One breathtaking performance—when she danced Giselle with nothing but borrowed shoes and a rented costume—they said she had promise. Real Promise. A scholarship. An invitation.

Russia, the sacred ground of Ballet.

But then came the fall. A single mistake. A slip.

Her knee shattered like glass beneath her. And with it, the dream. The letter stopped. The opportunity, once so close she could almost taste it, vanished in the blink of an eye. 
So she turned to you. Cold. Exact. Elegant. She never cried about the career she lost. She had you instead. You were her second chance.

From the moment you could walk, you weren’t allowed to walk. You were made to glide. Tiny steps with turned-out feet. Ankles pointed. Chin high. Spine like a string pulled from heaven.

By five, your home was no longer a home.

It was a studio.

The floors taped with pirouette lines.
The living room mirror used to check your port de bras.
The dining chairs stacked against the walls so your oversplits could hover without obstruction.

You knew how to hold your arms like swan wings before you could spell your last name. Stretched with elegance.

No weekends. No breaks. No playdates.
Just repetition. Until it stopped being trial, and became performance. “This is the sacrifice. If you want to fly, you must first break your bones.”

She never shouted only corrected. Silently. Precisely. Pain was proof. Blood was progress.

When your feet bled through your tights, she peeled the pointe shoes off carefully, kissed your bruises, and whispered:

“You’re becoming beautiful.”

You thought that meant worthy.

You were eleven when it happened.

A government-sponsored youth talent showcase. Held in a glittering hotel ballroom—glass chandeliers, polished red carpet, rows of strangers with pocket watches and soft leather gloves.

You had just finished your ribbon routine.

Your back was slick with sweat. Your limbs trembling from the final split leap.

But they clapped.
Polite. Quiet. Controlled.

Backstage, you stretched again. A recovery arch.

Back bowed. Arms curved behind your head like petals. Just a child doing what she’d been trained to do.

That’s when you saw him.

A man. A judge. Beady-eyed. Pale. Watching from the curtain.

Not with admiration. He didn’t blink.
Didn’t even pretend to look away when your mother stepped in front of you.

She’d seen it too.

Back home, she didn’t yell. She locked the door. Took off her shoes. Set her keys down.

Then she turned. Slowly.

And slapped you.

Your head snapped sideways. You gasped but didn’t cry.

“Why did you arch like that in front of him?”

You stammered. “I—I was just stretching, Mama, I didn’t know—”

She crouched in front of you. Fingers cold, rough on your flushed cheeks.

“You never let a man look at you like that. Not unless you can use it.”

Her words hit harder than the slap.

You were already crying.
Soft. Guilty. Confused.

But she wasn’t finished.

She held your face, trembling in her grip.

“You were beautiful tonight,” she whispered.

And you couldn’t tell if it was praise.

Or punishment.

That night, you slept curled up on your training mat.
The one with the sweat-stained corners and frayed lines.
Your tears soaked the crook of your elbow.

You didn’t arch your back.

You didn’t move at all.

You just lay there. Still.

Too afraid to make a mistake with your body.

Too afraid not to.

Now.

You sat in your room again.

Cold air clinging to your skin.

Your reflection in the mirror was still watching you.

Lips red. Slightly swollen.
From a certain harsh action.

You could still feel him. Zhenya.

His hands. His mouth. His words.

You stared and stared and stared.

At that strange, ugly girl in the mirror.

So pretty.

So soft.

Still so… bendable.

Your mother’s voice echoed somewhere in the marrow of your bones.

“You must first break your bones.”

But you weren’t strong.

You never had been.

All of it—your composure, your wit, your mask—
It was a performance.

Smoke and mirrors.

And tonight, it shattered.

You were crying.

Silently. Pathetically.

Zhenya x reader(fl)

Code Name Anastasia

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four

Being ugly means no one being interested in you. That’s the great thing of agency. But you have a secret to conceal what’s underneath.

Contains: Spy Thriller | Psychological | Dark Romance | non-consensual | unbothered Queen🧎‍♀️‍➡️😭

You hadn’t expected Zhenya to involve himself.
He had no reason to. No orders. No clearance.

But the moment he slipped into the conversation like smoke, you realized—he knew something.

He didn’t know it was you.

Not for sure.

But he suspected.

And worse, he was acting on it.

Every time Borodin poured you more wine, Zhenya reached for your glass first, like a gentleman offering to help.
Each time the man leaned too close, Zhenya’s hand would drift—low on your back, your hip, even your wrist—under the excuse of "escorting" you.

You tried, again and again, to gently pry Zhenya’s hand away with soft murmurs:

"Please don’t, sir."
"You’re too forward, I’m spoken for."
"Your hand’s warm, but this is inappropriate."

But it didn’t matter. His touch was always light, never crude—just enough to look possessive. To ruin your act. To keep Borodin on edge.

He was sabotaging you.

And yet, he never once looked at you directly. Never called you by name. Never said anything that might betray suspicion.

It was maddening.

Borodin didn’t seem particularly annoyed—if anything, he looked more entertained.
Your reluctance, your shy glances, the way you flinched under Zhenya’s hand—it only seemed to excite him.

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming, and spoke in Russian so only Zhenya would understand.

"You should learn how to tame yourself, darling. Before your appetites ruined."

Then he turned to you, switching to smooth Korean with Russian accent.

“Why don’t we find somewhere quieter?” he asked, rising from his chair with the slow confidence of a man used to being followed. “I’d love to talk business. Real business.”

You hesitated, only for a second. Then nodded, and stood up in one graceful movement.

Zhenya didn’t stop you.

But as you turned, you caught him watching—his mouth pressed into a line, his jaw tight.

There was no excuse for him to follow now. No mission. No backup needed. And yet you knew he would.

The private room was upstairs, past a velvet-rope barrier guarded by a silent man in black. Borodin gave a nod, and the man let you pass.

Inside was dim, lit only by wall sconces. The table was dark wood. The curtains velvet. One window faced the city lights, and one long leather couch waited beneath it.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Borodin didn’t move toward you right away. He circled instead—predator-like.

You knew from the moment Borodin shut the door that you weren’t in control.
Not really. Not when a man like him had the power to decide what became of beautiful things.
Not when men like him thought beauty meant weakness.

And that was exactly why you would win.

The flash drive burned cold in your palm as you tucked it into the hidden slit of your dress, keeping your face soft, your voice docile.

But Borodin’s mood shifted.

The knife prick hadn’t scared him—it had excited him.
It wasn’t suspicion that colored his gaze now.

It was craving.

“Women like you,” he murmured, taking slow steps toward you, “are why men go to war.”

His fingers brushed over the silk of your waist—light at first, then firmer. Gripping your hips as if to claim them. His body leaned in, his breath hot and heavy.

Then—

He licked you.

From the curve of your lower back up to your spine—slow, possessive, obscene. The trail of saliva cooled against your skin, making you shiver.

And when your body trembled, when your breath hitched, Borodin chuckled.
Delighted.

"Look at you," he whispered in your ear. "So fragile. So reactive."

You clutched your own wrists tightly behind your back. Not from fear.

From the restraint not to gut him right then and there.

You let him think he had won.

You bit your lip, let your body tremble just enough for his ego to swell, and spoke with the gentlest, most innocent voice you could summon:

“Shouldn’t we celebrate our little partnership?”

You picked up the bottle of wine on the table—vintage, no doubt poisoned with more than just alcohol.
You poured it into two crystal glasses, yours barely a sip, his nearly overflowing.

And you sat on the armrest of the leather couch, so he had to look up at you.
So he’d feel like he was the king being seduced.

“Let me keep you company tonight,” you whispered, brushing his cheek with your fingertips. “It’s so cold outside…”

He drank. Greedily.

And again.

And again.

You fed him with stories—falsified memories, fake names, breathy lies.
You asked him about Anastasia—the project.

He answered between gulps.

You asked about the research facilities, about who else funded it.

He slurred names, dates, cities.
Everything.

His fingers kept finding your thigh, your hair, your waist—but they grew slower. Sloppier.

Until finally, his body gave out.
And Borodin, Russia’s arrogant snake, collapsed onto the velvet sheets in a drunken heap.

Still grinning in his sleep.

You worked quickly.

First, the flash drive. You copied it onto the thin chip inside your heel, then snapped the drive in half and flushed it down the marble sink in the adjoining bathroom.

Second, the dress.

It was beautiful. Silken. Worth thousands.
You burned it in the fireplace with your gloves still on.

By the time Zhenya burst into the room, the air still warm with wine and ash—

You were gone.

Borodin lay snoring, half-dressed, the room smelling faintly of perfume and smoke.

But of you?

No trace. Not even a dropped eyelash.

You didn’t use the front exit.

You vanished through the service hall, where no one looked twice at a girl in a utility coat and cleaning boots.

You made it to the side streets, to the alley, where the icy wind cut against your flushed skin.

Behind the bakery, in a crate of salt bags, you dug up your mask—the plain, ugly one. The one the agency believed was you.

And like a curtain falling on a stage, you became her again.

The agent no one looked at.

The girl no one would believe could pull this off.

Back at your quarters, the lights buzzed dimly.

The moment the service door of the Winterlight Hotel closed behind you and your boots hit the frost-covered pavement, your body started to shake—not from cold.

Not from fear.

But from disgust.

Your hands trembled. Your mouth felt too soft, too open. Your back itched where Borodin’s tongue had traced you like a thing.

He touched you.

He licked you.

He wanted you like something to be sold, consumed, and thrown away. You let him.

Let him press his hands where numerous man had ever touched you.

Let him kiss the back of your neck.

Let him believe you were his prize.

All for the flash drive.

All for your mission.

When you reached your secret quarters, you barely managed to shut the door before the breakdown began.

You ripped off the coat. Kicked your shoes across the floor. Tore the cheap wig from your scalp. Then stumbled into the bathroom, nearly slipping on the cold tile.

You turned on the shower.

Hot. Boiling.

Scalding.

Steam filled the room, curling like ghost fingers. You stepped in and scrubbed.

And scrubbed.

You clawed at your skin with the harsh side of the soap, until your shoulders turned red and raw. The water burned every inch of you that had been touched.

Your spine felt infected—like Borodin’s saliva had sunk through the skin and into your bones. You raked at it with your nails until it bled.

Standing naked under the water, you whispered the thoughts that always found you after these missions:

You’re disgusting.
You wanted this, didn’t you?
No one told you to get that close.
Slut.
Pretty little whore, just like he said.

You fell to your knees, biting your fist to keep from screaming.

The heat kept running.
The water kept bleeding red down the drain.

Just like the day you received the mask that save you.

By the time the sun began to rise over Moscow—

You were already back at your desk.

Dressed in your plain uniform.

Face concealed behind the familiar, grotesque mask of your assigned identity. The one that made men look past you.

The one that made you safe.

No trace of perfume. No glittering silk. No seductive laughter.

Just the quiet hum of your monitor, the chill of dawn seeping through the cracked window, and your hands—finally still.

That’s when the door opened.

Zhenya stepped in without knocking.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look up.

“You weren’t at the quarters last night,” he said, voice quiet. But not accusing.

You continued typing.

“I went to get groceries,” you murmured. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

There was a long pause. Heavy. Tense.

You could feel him staring at you.

He didn’t say what he was really thinking:
That the girl at the gala last night—the one in satin, the one who made Borodin drunk and docile, the one who vanished without a trace—

Could’ve been you.

But he said nothing.

You turned your head slightly, let him see the mask. The average face. The lie.

You smiled faintly, “Something wrong?”

Zhenya looked at you for a long time.

Like he was peeling layers apart in his mind.

But whatever he thought… he didn’t say.

“…No,” he finally replied. “Nothing at all.”

You returned to your screen, pretending to read. Pretending not to feel the ghost of hands on your back. The taste of ash in your throat.

The door clicked. You leaned back to your chair, and let out a breathy sigh.

‘There he goes, back to Taekjoo’s arm,’ you thought to yourself, as you smiled.

The memory of them tangled together that day behind the mission room door still clawed at your mind sometimes—Zhenya’s fingers in Taekjoo’s shirt, their breath heavy and feral.

A prettly lil stranger

Zhenya x reader (fl)

Code Name Anastasia

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four

Being ugly means no one being interested in you. That’s the great thing of agency. But you have a secret to conceal what’s underneath.

Contains: Spy Thriller | Psychological | Dark Romance | non-consensual | unbothered Queen🧎‍♀️‍➡️😭

It came in the form of a handwritten letter. No stamps. No return address. Just the seal of the Director.

You opened it in the privacy of your underground room, with gloved hands and a wary pulse.

Agent 017,
Your face is needed.
You are to attend the Gala hosted by Oleg Mikhailov. The target is Ivan Borodin—a man too powerful, too well-shielded to be approached by any known operative. You will not report this to Agent Taekjoo or Zhenya. This operation is under my directive only.
Be beautiful. Be forgettable. And leave no trace behind.
—.

Inside the envelope were photos, profiles, and a sliver of cloth: satin as dark as oil, delicate as a dream. A gown. Along with it came a shimmering mask like glass smoke, a perfume that smelled like soft honey and sharp steel, and a diamond hairpin that could unscrew into a thin blade.

That afternoon, you left your quarters under the lie of gathering groceries and playing with the neighborhood kids—something you had begun to do often.

It helped build the illusion. You weren’t an agent. You were a civilian. Maybe the older sister of the child from the bakery. The one who always wore a hat too low on her head.

You laughed with the children. Bought candy. Let the sunlight fall over your plain mask.

Then, once night descended and the golden chimes of carriages echoed in the snow, you slipped away.

Behind the old railway station, in the shadow of the steel water tank, you changed.

Off came the modest clothes. On went the satin.

The dress clung to your curves like silk water—off-the-shoulder, delicately cinched at the waist, with a slit that kissed the top of your thigh. The mask was sheer around the eyes, but glittered across the cheekbones and nose bridge.

When you stepped out from behind the tank, you didn’t look like a spy.

You looked like temptation incarnate.

And no one would ever guess it was you.

The ballroom of the Winterlight Hotel was alive with gold.

Chandeliers sparkled like frost. Velvet drapes framed windows that bled moonlight. The crowd inside moved like a waltz of ghosts and diamonds.

You smiled softly, the way your mother had taught you.

Never show your teeth.

Always keep your chin down.

Let the men come to you.

And they did.

Businessmen in black tuxedos, their accents thick and teeth yellowing with cigars, circled you like moths. Hands grazed too low on your back. One tried to guess your name; another tried to buy your time.

But you weren’t here for them.

Your eyes found him—Ivan Borodin. Greying hair, sharp jaw, the cruel grin of a man used to devouring people whole.

You glided near him, careful. A girl in silver offered him champagne, and you stepped in just as she turned—brushing your fingers against his.

“Careful,” you murmured sweetly, feigning innocence. “Wouldn’t want you to stain your cufflinks.”

He chuckled. You tilted your head. The bait was set.

You didn’t see him.

You were too focused—smiling with wide, stupid eyes, the kind that said take me, I’m harmless.
You didn’t notice the figure at the far end of the room, drink untouched in hand, watching with narrowed eyes.

Zhenya.

He’d been invited last minute, under the guise of government security. Taekjoo hadn’t come.

And the second Zhenya saw you, his breath hitched.

The sway of your hips.

The way your hair curled behind your ear.

The shape of your mouth as you smiled, demure, deadly.

He didn’t recognize you.
He couldn’t.

You were... stunning. Effortless. A stranger who looked like sugar and secrets.

But there was something.
Something in the shape of your hands. The way you pressed your fingers together when nervous. The exact way your back curved when standing still.

Zhenya’s jaw clenched.

No.
It couldn’t be you.

Borodin bit the bait quickly.

His eyes lit with cruel amusement, and he invited you to his table, poured you expensive wine, let his fingers brush too long on your wrist. He asked questions. Where were you from? Were you married? What did you want?

You pretended to laugh. Bit your lip.

But you were extracting information.

Carefully, like silk drawn from a loom.

And then—*

"You’re too quiet for a woman like this," Borodin murmured, leaning closer. "What’s your name?"

You opened your mouth—ready to lie.

But then, a voice behind you.

“Her name,” Zhenya said, suddenly beside your shoulder, “is none of your concern.”

His voice was low. Dangerous.

You froze.

Borodin laughed, tipping his glass. “Ah. Russian men. Always so possessive.”

Zhenya didn’t even look at him. His eyes were locked on you.

And behind that gaze: confusion. Frustration. Something flickering just under the surface, like a match about to be lit.

You smiled sweetly and leaned into Zhenya like you didn’t recognize him either.

“Is something wrong, sir?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

But his hand brushed yours under the table, the touch too intentional.