The scent of old wood and candle wax clung to the air, soft and heavy like a lullaby.

Sabrina Petrova knelt in the pew, head bowed, hands clasped. The chapel was nearly empty—just her, a priest whispering Latin somewhere behind the altar, and the cracked silence of God.

Her lips didn’t move, but her mind screamed the same prayer it had whispered every morning for the past seven years.

"Let me find him. Let me end this. Let me have justice, even if it damns me."

A single candle flickered beside the crucifix. Her eyes stayed fixed on it, unblinking.

"I’m sorry, God. But I’m not here to forgive. I’m here to hunt."

She stood slowly, tucking her hair behind her ear and walking out with the grace of a woman who looked like she believed in mercy—because that’s who Sabrina Petrova had to be.

Outside, the city buzzed like static. Cool wind nipped at her collar as she crossed the stone steps, heels clicking against marble.

A man leaned against the far wall in black—hood up, arms crossed, chewing the edge of a toothpick. He was all shadows and secrets.

“Zephyre,” she said, barely glancing his way.

“You pray too long,” he muttered, handing her a sealed envelope. “Next time God can wait.”

She took it without flinching. Unfolded. Read.

The name stopped her heart for a breath.

Valen Antonov.

She said it aloud, tasting each syllable like venom.

“Valen Antonov,” she repeated, quieter this time. Not as a name. As a promise.

She tucked the file beneath her coat, eyes locked on the skyline like it might lead her to him.

I can do anything to kill this man.

Even if it means becoming the very monster he was.

THE SCENE SHIFTS

The room was glass, concrete, and tension.

Valen Antonov sat at the head of the obsidian conference table, fingers steepled, tailored suit sharp enough to slice silence. The city's skyline sprawled behind him like a kingdom he barely cared to rule.

His CFO was speaking. Something about quarterly projections and the security firm they were absorbing next quarter. He wasn’t listening.

Numbers never lied, but people did. And Valen had learned long ago to read the pauses between words more than the words themselves.

And then—he sneezed.

Once. Sharp. Out of nowhere.

He blinked, slightly thrown. His team paused.

“Bless you,” said Mira, his assistant, wide-eyed. No one dared follow.

Valen waved it off with a flick of his wrist. “Someone must be talking about me.”

His voice was low, amused, velvet-wrapped steel.

But beneath the cool exterior, something twisted in his chest. A twinge—not pain exactly, but a ripple. Like something was off-balance in the air.

Unseen, unnamed… but coming.

He sat back, one brow lifting, eyes narrowed. That strange pull buzzed under his skin like static.

“Send me the files,” he said curtly, already done with the meeting in his mind.

When the room emptied, he stayed behind. Alone. Restless.

He stood and walked to the window, looking out over Moscow’s steel spine, his reflection ghosted in the glass.

Someone had said his name.

And whoever it was, he could already feel it

—

It would be a problem.

And he was starting to hope it'd be worth it.

Chapter Two: "The Lamb and the Knife"

The underground safehouse smelled like gunmetal, paper, and burnt espresso—Zephyre’s attempt at brewing coffee, which she had politely refused for the fifth time that week.

Maps were pinned across the wall. Strings of red thread connected surveillance photos and nameplates like the threads of a spiderweb spun by God himself. In the middle, circled twice in crimson ink: Valen Antonov.

“You sure about this?” Zephyre asked, arms crossed, face unreadable. “Going in as his assistant?”

“It gets me close,” she replied, sliding a thumb drive across the table. “His company just lost their PR head. I applied last week under the alias. Credentials are perfect. They already scheduled an interview.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“I am fire.”

Her voice was soft. Deadly calm.

Zephyre’s eyes narrowed. “And if he recognizes you?”

“He won’t. Not as Sabrina Petrova. And definitely not as Sophia Ivanova.”

A pause. Then, with the faintest flicker of concern, “If he’s innocent—”

“I kill the doubt before it kills someone else.”

Silence hung for a beat. Then Zephyre spoke, voice low. “You’re different when it’s personal.”

Sabrina met his gaze, steady and unflinching.

“It’s always been personal.”

She turned toward the mirror, adjusting the delicate silver crucifix around her neck—the one her sister used to wear. Now, it was more than a symbol of faith. It was her anchor. Her reminder.

One week. One interview. One man.

She would walk into the lion’s den with a smile, and if God didn’t show up?

She’d be His wrath.

Zephyre didn’t flinch, but something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of something old—burned and buried.

Sabrina caught it. She always did.

“You still think I’m going to end up like them?” she asked quietly.

He looked away, jaw flexing. “I think you’re already halfway there.”

There was no venom in his voice. Just knowledge. The kind that came from surviving monsters and knowing you still carried their shadows.

Zephyre had grown up a child no one wanted to touch. His parents were infamous—two charming sociopaths who smiled at their neighbors by day and experimented on them by night. When the truth came out, the world didn’t pity him. It exiled him.

Orphaned at twelve. Labeled at thirteen. Recruited at fifteen.

The world never gave him a chance to be anything but broken.

That’s why he understood her.

That’s why she trusted him.

Sabrina reached for the silver cross around her neck. “I won’t become them.”

“You already have a code name, a kill list, and zero intention of walking away clean,” he said dryly. “Tell me again how you’re different.”

Her eyes met his—ice against fire.

“Because I still remember her laugh. And I still pray I never forget it.”

That was the end of the conversation.

Zephyre checked his watch. “You’ve got three days. After that, we go dark.”

Sabrina nodded. Three days to infiltrate. To charm. To find proof.

To kill—if she had to.

But before she could respond, a sharp beep echoed through the room.

Zephyre’s phone lit up. He tapped the screen, eyes scanning the message—and froze.

“What is it?” she asked.

He looked up, face unreadable for once.

“He knows someone’s coming.”

Her heart stopped.

Valen Antonov had eyes everywhere. But he wasn’t supposed to know about her.

Not yet.

Then the second message came through.

Zephyre read it aloud, voice tight.

“Tell the girl in the cross necklace—I'll be waiting.”

Sabrina went cold.

He didn’t just know someone was coming.

He knew it was her.

Chapter 3: "Flesh and Faith"

The wind cut sharper than a blade.

It whispered through Moscow’s empty streets like a ghost, brushing against Sabrina’s cheeks as she stepped out of the car. Her breath fogged in the air, white and fleeting. Snow clung to the corners of cobblestone alleys, slushed and stained by city grime. The chill didn’t bother her.

She welcomed the cold. It reminded her she was still alive.

She ducked into a side chapel a few blocks from Antonov Enterprises. Not the one she usually visited—this one was smaller, older, quieter. The kind of place where the pews creaked and the air held the weight of unspoken prayers.

Kneeling down, she clasped her hands in front of her.

God, she whispered in her mind, "I don’t ask for peace. I ask for permission."

Her fingers tightened.

Let me avenge her. Let me be Your justice when mercy isn’t enough. Even if it breaks me.

Her hands dropped. She rose.

By the time she reached the Antonov building, her eyes were dry, her back straight, her heart caged behind steel.

The receptionist led her through a set of mirrored elevator doors, all polite smiles and “Mr. Antonov is ready for you now.”

She wasn’t expecting him to be in the room. Not yet. Not like this.

But there he was.

Valen Antonov.

Tailored suit. Handsome in the way wolves are handsome—sharp, silent, and dangerous when cornered. His hair was swept back, revealing a strong brow and even stronger jawline. Those grey eyes met hers, and for one jarring second, she forgot how to breathe.

Not because he was beautiful.

Because he looked at her like he already knew she was lying.

“Miss Ivanova,” he said, voice like winter silk. “You’re early. I like that.”

Sabrina smiled. Poised. Perfect. “Punctuality is respect, sir.”

He gestured for her to sit, watching her like a hunter watches a heartbeat.

They went through a few predictable questions. Background, PR experience, fabricated credentials she had rehearsed in her sleep.

And then—he leaned back, expression unreadable.

“One last question,” Valen said, eyes locked onto hers. “Why do you believe in God?”

She blinked. “I—I’m not sure I understand the relevance—”

“It’s relevant to me.” His voice was quiet. Steady. Dangerous. “So answer it.”

Silence spread between them, thick and tense. Her heart thudded in her chest, but her face remained still.

“Because faith is hope,” she said softly. “And hope is the only thing that ever made pain worth surviving.”

He studied her. Like he could see all the parts she kept hidden. Then, with a slow smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he said—

“God doesn’t exist.”

And with that, he stood.

“Welcome to the team, Miss Ivanova.”

She blinked at the closed door.

"God doesn’t exist."

The words still echoed in her head like a curse wrapped in silk.

Not because she hadn’t heard them before—she had. Too many times.

But because of who had said them.

So confidently. So casually. Like truth was his to declare.

Still, she smiled. Nodded. Said, “Thank you, sir,” like a good little assistant.

Because she had what she needed.

Access.

As she walked through the sleek corridor, lined with glass offices and frosted doors, her heels echoed like a drumbeat of progress. Until a sharp voice broke the rhythm.

“Nice necklace,” said a woman by the elevators.

Tall, model-gorgeous, clipboard in one hand, judgment in the other.

Sabrina turned. “Thank you.”

“You might want to take it off,” the woman added, eyeing the silver cross resting just above Sabrina’s collarbone. “Valen doesn’t tolerate religion. At all. Personal rule.”

Sabrina blinked once. Then let out a soft, dry laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I’m his executive assistant. I’m always serious.” Her tone held the stiffness of someone used to being obeyed. “Consider this a warning. Most don’t get one.”

Sabrina’s smile sharpened. “Well, I’m not most.”

“Exactly. Most were smart enough to listen.”

That did it.

Sabrina stepped forward, chin tilted just enough to challenge without breaking composure. “Tell me something,” she said lightly. “If your boss is powerful enough to make God disappear, why is He still the one people pray to when Antonov ruins them?”

The woman’s lips parted—offended, maybe even impressed—but before she could bite back, a new voice cut through the air.

“Is there a problem?”

They both turned.

Valen stood a few feet away, one hand in his pocket, gaze fixed on Sabrina like she’d just dropped a grenade in his hallway.

The assistant straightened. “Sir, I was just reminding—”

“I heard.” His eyes didn’t leave Sabrina. “She can wear the necklace.”

Silence.

The assistant blinked. “But that’s against—”

“She’s not most people.”

He turned and walked off without waiting for a response.

Sabrina’s breath caught—not from fear. From the way his words wrapped around her like something dark and forbidden.

She could feel the tension humming in the air, the kind that came before lightning struck.

He allowed the necklace.

He never had before.

And in that moment, one thing became crystal clear:

She hadn’t just stepped into his world.

She’d already started rewriting its rules.