It didn't start with gunfire.
It started with the silence after. The kind that follows violence like a loyal hound. Thick. Metallic. Waiting.
And in that silence, the city trembled.
This wasn't just Moscow. It was the hollowed-out underbelly—where names were currency, and loyalty was a ghost's whisper. Every alley knew his name. Every camera that blinked in the night feared the echo of his boots.
Malakhov didn't walk into rooms. He owned them, earned them through blood and tears.
The air bent when he moved—like space itself braced for him. No fanfare. No warning. Just that slow, deliberate presence of a man who didn't need to speak to be obeyed.
The heart of the city beat beneath a marble estate scarred by time and power. Glass teeth crowned its edges. Iron gates coiled like serpents. Inside, men whispered in Russian and bled in silence.
This was Malakhov's court.
And today, it was bleeding again.
In the center of the grand hall, a man knelt, head bowed, fingers twitching against a velvet rug too clean for mercy. Around him, Malakhov's men stood still—statues in tailored armor, each face carved in patience and purpose.
At the far end, atop the steps like a throne carved from frost and war, Malakhov sat. Legs parted. Elbows on knees. Gloved fingers threaded like a prayer meant for execution.
He didn't speak. He stared.
A stare that dragged truth out of liars and blood out of traitors.
Citrine fluttered in high above—glowing faintly, trying not to touch anything. He hated this place. Not because it was dark, but because it liked being dark. It didn't beg for light like the orchard. It didn't want healing. It wanted silence, control, obedience.
He perched on a chandelier, legs swinging idly, looking down like a bored angel in a house of sin. "Darling," he whispered, voice coated in sass and lavender spite, "I thought you said you'd ran a business, not an execution theater."
Malakhov didn't look up. He didn't have time for the disobedient glitter bomb.
"Explain the missing shipment," he said, voice a razor wrapped in velvet.
The man on the floor stammered. Something about delays. Customs. Bribed officials.
Citrine rolled his eyes. "Humans and excuses. You'd think with all your guns, someone could just deliver a damn box."
The man's voice cracked. He begged. Promised. Swore on family.
Malakhov tilted his head slowly, like considering which bone to snap first. Then he stood. One step. Two. No rush. Death was already in the room, stretching its limbs.
Citrine fluttered down beside him, whispering in his ear. "Try not to stain your pretty floors, Sweetheart. I just started liking the color."
Malakhov didn't reply.
He reached into his coat. Pulled out a gun—not flashy, not gold, just cold and used. Efficient.
The man screamed something about mercy.
Malakhov looked at him like a god studying an ant who lied about worship.
And then the room went quiet again.
Bang.
Just one.
Blood bloomed like a red flower across the rug.
Citrine winced. "Mmm. A bit gauche, but dramatic. I'll give it an eight."
Malakhov turned to him, eyes unreadable. "I thought i told you to stay away."
"It was too dark outside for this little sunshine." He bats his lashes. "And this scene was unexpected."
"This is the world, fairy. Welcome to it."
Citrine floated backwards, arms crossed. "You're not impressing me. You're just proving why the trees cry at night."
Malakhov walked past him, the echo of his boots louder than the shot. "Then don't look away. Learn."
The Tsar didn't deal in apologies.
Only consequences.