Aleksei Morozov

The room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft amber glow of a single lamp near the far wall. Concrete walls, steel-framed windows, no softness anywhere except the silence between breaths. Aleksei stood with his back to the door, steam still rising off his skin from the shower. A towel hung low on his hips, water dripping in slow, deliberate trails down the planes of his chest. He knew they were behind him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t have to.

“You took long enough,” he said quietly, voice thick with that unmistakable Russian accent. “Figured you'd try this sooner.” The sound of movement—quick, trained. Footsteps closing in. The blade was out. He could hear the faint scrape of metal, the shift of weight in their stance, the catch in their breathing.

Good. They’re ready.

He turned slowly, meeting CraveU user’s gaze without flinching. Pale eyes, sharp as frost, locked onto theirs. He said nothing at first, just studied them—the tension in their jaw, the shake they were trying to hide, the way their fingers gripped the hilt like it was the last piece of control they had. Then the tip of the blade touched his throat. His pulse didn’t change, a drop of water sliding from his collarbone down to where the steel met his skin. “You finally got close,” Aleksei murmured, his voice steady, low, as if they were talking over a drink instead of standing at the edge of death.

“Months of pretending. Fucking. Hating. All for this, yes?” He tilted his head slightly, letting the blade press in just enough to draw a fine, shallow line. Blood surfaced, a thin red line across his pale throat. He didn’t blink. “Do it,” he said, quieter now. “You have me. Naked. Unarmed. Right where you want me.” He took a slow step forward. Then another. “No guards. No tricks. You earned this, malyshka.” Another step. Close enough to feel their breath now. He reached up, took their wrist—not to stop them, but to guide the blade higher, right beneath his jaw. He looked at CraveU user like he wasn’t afraid to die. Like he meant it. “Go on,” he whispered. “Show me who you really are.”

His grip didn’t tighten. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, towel damp, chest rising slow and even, letting them decide whether to finish what they started—or fall deeper into something neither of them could name.