Anya was halfway down the block when the night changed.
It was subtle at first. The kind of wrong you feel before you understand it. The air tightening. Sound draining away. Laughter from the bar on the corner cutting off too abruptly, like someone had reached out and snapped its neck.
She slowed.
The streetlights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across the snow. Her reflection slid along dark shop windows. A woman alone. Nothing special. Nothing worth noticing.
That was the lie she lived by.
A van idled at the curb ahead. Engine running. Lights off.
Her pulse ticked faster. She told herself not to be paranoid. Moscow was full of vans. Full of men who minded their own business.
Then the doors opened.
Everything happened at once.
Boots hit pavement. A gunshot cracked the night from somewhere down the street. Not near her. Close enough. Someone shouted in Russian. Sharp. Commanding.
She turned to run.
A hand caught her coat and yanked her back so hard her breath tore from her lungs. Another arm locked around her chest. Fingers crushed her jaw, forcing her mouth shut as she tried to scream.
"Not her," someone barked.
"She saw us."
"I said not her."
Her bag hit the ground. Glass shattered. Something rolled underfoot. She kicked blindly, heel connecting with a shin. A curse followed, angry and quick.
Pain exploded as her arms were twisted behind her back. Efficient. Practiced. She wasn't the first woman they had taken like this.
A hood was shoved over her head.
Darkness swallowed everything.
She was lifted, carried, thrown. Metal slammed. The van lurched into motion.
Anya forced herself to breathe.
In. Out.
She counted the turns by the pull of her body. Left. Right. Hard stop. Faster now. Tires on ice. Men spoke over her, voices tight, irritated.
"Orders were clear."
"She's not the target."
"She saw faces."
A pause.
Then another voice cut through them. Low. Calm. It didn't need to be loud.
"Bring her anyway."
No one argued.
That was when fear settled properly in her chest. Heavy. Certain.
The van stopped.
Hands dragged her out. Cold burned her lungs as the hood came off. She blinked against harsh light, eyes stinging, vision swimming.
They were inside a building. Marble floors. High ceilings. The kind of place that smelled like money and bleach.
Men lined the walls. All black coats. All armed.
And at the center of the room stood the man they all revolved around.
He did not move when she was shoved forward. Did not raise his voice. Did not hurry.
He simply watched.
Ivan Volkov looked like a man carved out of shadow. Tall. Broad. Still. His dark suit was immaculate, as if violence knew better than to touch him without permission. His face was hard in a way that had nothing to do with anger. Cold eyes. Measured. Uninterested in mercy.
"This is her," one of the men said.
Ivan's gaze shifted to Anya.
She felt it like a weight pressing down on her shoulders.
"She is not Sokolov's courier," Ivan said.
"No," the man admitted. "But she saw the exchange."
Ivan took a step closer.
One step was all it took.
Anya fought the urge to look away. She had learned young that men like this fed on fear. She lifted her chin instead, even as her heart slammed against her ribs.
Ivan stopped in front of her. Studied her face slowly. Her eyes. Her mouth. The faint scar near her eyebrow.
"She ran," he said.
"Yes."
"She fought."
"Yes."
Ivan nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.
"Kill her."
The word landed clean and flat.
A gun shifted behind her. Metal clicked.
Her breath caught but she did not beg.
Ivan's gaze sharpened.
"Wait."
Silence snapped into place.
Ivan looked at her again, closer now. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
"What is your name," he asked.
She hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
He noticed.
"Anya," she said.
"Last name."
She held his stare. "I don't use it."
The room felt smaller.
Ivan straightened. "You were taken by mistake," he said.
Hope flared despite herself. Stupid. Dangerous.
"I could return you," he went on. "Pay compensation. Close this."
The hope burned brighter.
Then his eyes hardened.
"But too many men saw you."
The flame died.
"If you walk out of here," Ivan said calmly, "you will be hunted. You will not make it far."
Anya swallowed. Her mouth tasted like blood.
"So you will stay."
Her head snapped up. "Stay where."
"With me."
One of the men shifted. "Boss, she's a liability."
Ivan didn't look away from Anya.
"So is a loose end."
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him. The quiet authority that filled the space around his body.
"You belong to me now," he said.
Not a threat. A verdict.
"I don't belong to anyone," she said, voice tight but steady.
Ivan's mouth curved slightly. Not a smile.
"You do now."
He turned away.
"East room," he said. "Locked. Fed. Guarded."
He paused at the door.
"If anyone touches her," he added, voice still calm, "I will end them."
The door closed behind him.
The lock clicked.
Anya stood shaking in the middle of a room she did not belong in, surrounded by men who would kill without blinking.
She had been taken by mistake.
And kept on purpose.