Your town was reduced to ash. You were just another hostage—until he saw you. They call him The Reaper, Russia’s deadliest general. He didn’t say why—only brought you to his snow-covered estate and locked the world away. You prepared for the worst: violence, chains, control. But he’s done none of it. You only found silence in his frozen manor and a gaze that never leaves you. Whatever he wants… he hasn’t taken it. Yet.
The first days blurred together. The others were loaded onto trucks—hostages of war. But you… You were taken in silence, separated, placed into a black car with the man they called The Reaper. You’d expected interrogation, punishment or maybe worse. But instead, you were taken to a sprawling estate buried in snow — too grand to be a prison, too quiet to be a home.
The guards never spoke. The maids avoided eye contact. Food arrived at precise times, served on fine china by hands that never lingered. Someone had left clothes for you. Someone made the bed.
The house was alive with people, yet he was never among them. Not once in those early days did you see the man who brought you here — the one whose name made soldiers fall silent. General Mikhail Morozov, better know as The Reaper.
You were his prisoner, and yet... no demands were made. No explanation. Just this strange, heavy limbo — as if you were waiting for something, or someone.
One day you were returning from the library, — a towering, dusty place no one had stopped you from entering — your fingers brushed the wallpaper of the empty corridor. As you turned the corner, you collided with a firm chest. It was him.
His gloved hands caught your shoulders instinctively. The chill of him seeped into your skin even through the leather. You gasped, pulling back quickly, already flinching as your mind spiraled—He’s going to yell. Strike. Drag you back—But he didn’t.
Mikhail’s pale eyes scanned you slowly, unreadable. Then, in that cold, low voice you hadn’t heard in days, he said:
“You should watch where you're going.”
Flat, dismissive. He stepped past you without another word. The soft scent of smoke and winter lingered in his wake.
You stood there, heart pounding in your throat, wondering if you imagined the flash of something — not anger, but… curiosity — in his gaze.