It’s not what I expected from a man like Miron Sharov. He’s built like the rumors, broad, imposing, every inch a threat. Yet here, the muscle is only half the story. I’ve seen the way he bends over those screens, code spilling like water from his fingertips, his brow furrowed in calculation.
It unsettles me: the idea that he’s not just dangerous, but brilliant. I always thought I could handle a brute; brute force is predictable. Intelligence is another beast entirely.
The walls in his office are lined with things I try not to stare at too long: knives, pistols, rifles that gleam dully in the shifting glow of the monitors. Everything is arranged with the same precision he brings to every movement, every word.
The room smells of old paper and oil, coffee and gunmetal. There’s no comfort in it, only the evidence of a mind that never stops moving, never lets down its guard.
Some nights, when the air feels thick and restless, I lie on my cot and let my mind spin. I try to picture the kind of man who lives in such a space. Not a monster, not just—not only. There’s purpose in all he does, an order to the madness that terrifies me more than cruelty ever could.
Tonight, curiosity gets the better of me. I wait until the hush deepens, until I’m certain he’s left the house for one of his midnight walks or clandestine meetings. My heart hammers so loudly I can barely hear myself think as I slip into the hallway, bare feet silent on the rug. The door to his office is unlocked, which feels more like a trap than a gift.
I step inside and the world changes.
The light is dim but steady, cast from rows of monitors and the warm lamp at his desk. I stand in the doorway, just breathing it in: a digital fortress. Lines of code scroll endlessly across black screens—bank transfers, encrypted messages,security feeds. Each flicker, each chime of an alert, tells a story I only half understand. The walls bristle with danger, but it’s the intelligence humming beneath the violence that draws me closer.
I move to the desk, unable to help myself. My fingers hover above the keyboard, tempted to touch, to decode, to know. I run them lightly over the smooth plastic, heart in my throat. So much information, all here, at his command.
I glimpse a map studded with pulsing red dots, locations, perhaps, or targets. A browser window blinks with lines of Russian text. Another screen splits into a dozen security camera feeds: corridors, doors, the city outside.
He’s a king in his castle, not because he’s the strongest, but because he knows everything. The realization sends a shiver through me—admiration tangled hopelessly with dread.
Part of me wants to smash the screen, to scramble the data and make him blind. Another part wants to learn, wants to understand what drives him, what he fears, what might be left to save. The codes are hypnotic.
I recognize patterns, bits of logic, sequences that echo my own work, but more intricate, more ruthless. I try to follow them, piecing together scraps of identity hidden behind encryption, wondering if somewhere in all these tangled lines is the key to who Miron really is.
I lean closer, breath fogging the monitor, fingers inching toward the mouse. I tell myself it’s for survival, that if I can understand the rules of his game, I might find a way out. In truth, I’m not sure what I’m searching for—freedom, leverage, or just something that will make sense of this cage I’ve been forced to call home.
The air shifts. I don’t hear the door at first; it’s just a change in the room’s pressure, a cold brush of intuition that prickles the hairs on my arms. I freeze, hands hovering, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
The door clicks.
I turn, stomach lurching. He stands there, framed in the doorway. He doesn’t speak. He just watches, eyes narrowed, every muscle coiled with the promise of reaction. His shadow stretches across the carpet, swallowing the lamplight, pinning me in place.
My heart hammers. I realize, too late, that the real danger isn’t the weapons, the codes, the locks on the doors. It’s him: the intelligence, the precision, the certainty in his gaze.
I’m caught.
The silence stretches—his, mine, the humming screens behind me. I wait, every sense screaming, as Miron Sharov steps into the room and closes the door behind him.
He leans there in the doorway, perfectly at ease, arms crossed. The light from the monitors paints strange patterns on his face half in shadow, half sharp with knowing. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t threaten. That’s never his way.
Instead, he just watches, as if waiting to see what I’ll do when the walls close in.
“Curious little raven,” he murmurs at last, voice low, teasing, as if he’s not the one who’s kept me caged, as if he’s stumbled upon some amusing scene instead of catching me red-handed. His words curl with mockery, with something darker threaded underneath: promise, or warning, or both.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to stammer out excuses. My brain fumbles for a lie—any lie—but I can’t think of one that would sound even halfway convincing. I take a step away fromthe desk, desperate for space, for composure, for anything that will put a barrier between us.
My back hits the sharp edge of the wood, a jolt that snaps through my bones. I freeze.
He pushes off the doorframe, moving with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone who’s already won. His steps are unhurried, measured, almost graceful. He doesn’t bother to glance at the screens or the scattered notes on the desk.
All his attention is fixed on me, and there’s a humor in his eyes that shouldn’t make my heart pound like this.
I grip the desk behind me, knuckles whitening. The hum of machines fades beneath the rush of blood in my ears. I try to straighten, to conjure up anger, but what surfaces first is shame—not just at being caught, but at being curious in the first place.
He stops just short of touching me, his presence close enough to steal the air.
“Curiosity is dangerous,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, but there’s no real menace to it—just a kind of hungry delight. His eyes flick over my face, cataloging every reaction. “I could lock this room. Change every code. You’d still find a way to get in, wouldn’t you?”
