This is an attack.
For most of my life, I have believed these walls were untouchable. Impenetrable.
My father made sure of it.
He built this house like a fortress. Filled it with men who would die before letting an enemy step inside. He always said the Petrov name was enough—that fear alone would keep danger at a distance.
I believed him.
Not anymore.
Because my home is under attack.
And whoever is doing this…knew exactly how to get inside.
I turn sharply, already moving with purpose now.
There’s no hesitation. No confusion.
Only one thing matters.
My father.
At this hour, there’s only one place he would be.
His office.
He works like time is something he can outrun. Like stopping—even for a moment—is a weakness he cannot afford.
If there’s chaos in this house, he’ll be at the center of it.
Or controlling it.
Or—no! I don’t let the thought finish. I move faster.
The door to his office is already open.
That’s the first sign that something’s wrong.
My father never leaves doors open.
Never.
I slow as I reach it—not out of fear, but instinct. Something in me tightening, sharpening, bracing.
Then I step inside.
And the world tilts.
Blood. It’s everywhere.
Three bodies lie scattered across the room—men I’ve known for years. Men my father trusted enough to keep close. Their blood spreads across the expensive carpet in dark, soakingstains, creeping into patterns that shouldn’t exist in a place like this.
One of the tall windows is shattered, jagged glass clinging to the frame as icy wind tears through the room, carrying the scent of snow…and gunpowder…and blood.
The cold barely touches me.
Because I see him.
