codename: Seraphim

Olga's laughter filled the room again, light and soothing as the tension in Yaroslav's posture began to ease slightly. "Oh, Yaroslav," she said, smiling at him with a mix of fondness and amusement. "You're making it sound like such a terrible thing. Don't forget—despite all her antics, Zhenya adores you. And deep down, I know you adore her too."

Yaroslav clicked his tongue, looking away as if to shield himself from Olga's perceptive gaze. "Adore is a strong word," he muttered, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

The baby stirred slightly in Olga's arms, her tiny fists curling as she let out a soft coo. The sound drew Yaroslav's attention immediately, his hardened expression softening as his gaze dropped to his newborn niece. For a moment, all his protests seemed to fade away, replaced by a quiet awe.

"Well," Yaroslav finally said, his voice lower, more contemplative. "If you're set on naming her after Zhenya, I suppose I'll just have to get used to it. But don't blame me when she insists on holding every family gathering hostage with her stories about how she's the namesake of your firstborn."

Olga smiled warmly, her eyes sparkling with affection as she reached out to gently touch Yaroslav's hand. "Thank you, Yaroslav," she said sincerely. "I know you'll love her name as much as you already love her."

Vanya chuckled, shaking his head as he watched his brother. "You're soft, Yaro. Admit it."

"Shut up, Vanya," Yaroslav shot back, his tone tinged with exasperation but lacking any real venom. He straightened, preparing to say more, when the door opened with a soft creak. The scent of roses wafted in before Maksim, the eldest Vyshnevsky brother, stepped through the threshold, holding an enormous bouquet of blood-red roses.

"Apologies for being late," Maksim announced, his deep voice smooth but carrying an air of calculated ease. He offered Olga a warm smile, his sharp cheekbones softening in the presence of their sister-in-law and the baby. "Congratulations," he said sincerely, moving closer to place the flowers on the already crowded table of gifts.

Yaroslav's reaction was instant. He rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. His lips curled into a faint sneer, and he pivoted on his heel, clearly intent on making his exit. Whatever Maksim was selling today, Yaroslav wasn't buying it. But as he reached the door, Maksim's voice stopped him.

"Yaroslav, wait." Maksim's tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency that made Yaroslav pause mid-step. Maksim's footsteps echoed in the hallway as he followed him out, shutting the door behind them.

"What do you want, Maksim?" Yaroslav asked, spinning around with a sharpness that made the hem of his heavy white fur coat flare dramatically. His piercing blue eyes bore into Maksim's with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. "If you're here to gloat or start something, don't bother. I don't have the patience for it today."

Maksim held up his hands in mock surrender, his expression calm. "Look, I'm not here to cause trouble," he began. "I'm here to make peace."

Yaroslav blinked, then tilted his head, his expression morphing into one of incredulity. "You? Make peace?" His tone was dripping with sarcasm, his brows arched so high they practically disappeared under his hairline. "Oh, this should be good. Let me guess, you're about to tell me you've turned over a new leaf? Found religion? Or maybe you've finally realized that you're not actually the center of the universe?"

Maksim frowned, clearly not expecting such an immediate barrage of sass. "Yaro—" he started, but Yaroslav cut him off, holding up a hand.

"No, no, don't stop now," Yaroslav said, his voice mockingly encouraging. "I want to hear this. Go on, tell me about this sudden epiphany you've had. Enlighten me. I could use a laugh."

Vanya, who had silently slipped out of the room and joined them, leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched the exchange with a bemused smile. "Let him talk, Yaro," he said lightly, though the amusement in his tone only added fuel to Yaroslav's fire.

Yaroslav shot Vanya a sharp glare. "Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he snapped before turning his attention back to Maksim. "Alright, Maksim. You've got my attention. Let's hear it. But fair warning—if you say anything remotely sanctimonious, I'm walking away."

Maksim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know we've been at loggerheads since childhood," he began, his voice measured and deliberate. "And I—"

"Wow," Yaroslav interjected, clapping his hands slowly, the sound echoing in the hallway. "Stop the presses. Maksim Vyshnevsky has discovered self-awareness. This is groundbreaking." His tone was dripping with mock enthusiasm, his eyes narrowing as he leaned in slightly, his smirk razor-sharp. "What's next? An apology? Or maybe a promise to finally stop acting like you're entitled to everything?"

Maksim's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "I'm being serious, Yaroslav," he said, his voice firm. "I'm trying to extend an olive branch here."

"An olive branch?" Yaroslav scoffed, leaning back and crossing his arms. "More like a twig from a tree you set on fire years ago. Forgive me if I'm a little skeptical."

Vanya, stifling a laugh, chimed in. "You know, for someone who claims he doesn't have the patience, you sure have a lot to say."

"Don't you have a baby to coo over?" Yaroslav shot back without missing a beat. "Let the grown-ups talk."

"Excuse me??" Vanya shot back.

Maksim sighed again, his frustration visible now. "Look, Yaro, I'm not here to argue with you. I just want us to move past this. For the family."

"For the family," Yaroslav repeated, his tone mockingly earnest. "How noble of you. But here's the thing, Maksim—if you really cared about this family, you wouldn't have spent years undermining me at every turn."

"Yaroslav," Maksim began, his tone measured as though he were speaking to a volatile child. "I'm not here to fight with you."

Yaroslav tilted his head, his white fur coat slipping slightly off one shoulder, adding to his devil-may-care aura. "Really? Because walking in unannounced, disrupting my peace, and now giving me this ridiculous speech feels like the start of a fight." He narrowed his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But do go on. I'm all ears."

Maksim's jaw tightened, but he pressed on. "I know we've had our differences—"

"Differences?" Yaroslav cut in, stepping forward and poking Maksim square in the chest. "You spent years treating me like an afterthought, like I was some insignificant shadow you could push aside. And now you think a few words are going to fix that?"

"Yaro—" Vanya began, but Yaroslav turned on him like a whip.

"Don't Yaro me," he snapped. "You're no better. Always sitting on the sidelines, playing the neutral diplomat while Maksim trampled over me."

Vanya raised his hands defensively, a chuckle escaping. "Calm down, malenkiy brat," he teased. "You're acting like we still live in the same house and fight over who gets the biggest piece of cake."

"That's because neither of you ever gave me a piece to begin with!" Yaroslav shot back, his voice sharp enough to cut through the thick tension. He turned back to Maksim, his gaze icy. "What do you really want, Maksim? Because this whole 'let's make peace' charade? I'm not buying it."

Maksim sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I know I've made mistakes," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I wasn't always fair to you. But things are different now, Yaro. We're not kids anymore."

"No, we're not," Yaroslav agreed, his voice quiet but no less biting. "But somehow, you still think you can waltz in and act like the benevolent elder brother, as if that erases everything."

Maksim hesitated, his mouth opening as though to argue, but Vanya stepped in. "Yaro, come on," he said, placing a hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "At least give him a chance."

Yaroslav shrugged Vanya's hand off, his expression hardening. "Give him a chance? I've spent my entire life giving both of you chances." He fixed Maksim with a steely glare. "If you're really serious about making peace, prove it. And no—" he held up a hand when Maksim tried to interject, "—don't say anything. Actions, Maksim. That's all I'll accept."

With that, Yaroslav turned on his heel, his fur coat swaying dramatically behind him as he strode away. The rhythmic click of his polished shoes echoed until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

Maksim let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "How does he have so much energy for this?"

Vanya chuckled, leaning against the wall. "Because he's Yaroslav," he said with a shrug. "The youngest. The one who had to claw his way into being heard in this family. You should've expected nothing less."

Beom leaned heavily against the cold metal railing of the balcony, his cigarette dangling between his fingers as smoke curled lazily into the crisp air. His eyes, distant and unfocused, gazed out at the endless expanse of trees blanketed in white, their snow-laden branches a stark contrast to the storm raging within him. The serenity of the view felt like a cruel joke, mocking the chaos in his head.

"Haaah," he sighed, letting the smoke escape his lips, dissipating into the wintry breeze. Each drag of the cigarette offered a fleeting sense of calm, but his mind was anything but. It raced, jumping from one thought to another, the weight of his predicament bearing down on him.

"I need to find a way out of this place," he muttered to himself, though the words were swallowed by the icy silence around him. The balcony, though spacious, felt suffocating—an open cage with no real freedom.

His thoughts spiraled, a torrent of frustration and despair. What the hell did I do to deserve this? Beom clenched his jaw, his free hand gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. I didn't ask for any of this—none of it! That lunatic… changing my body without even asking. Just because of his sick fantasies…

His stomach twisted at the memory, a bitter taste rising in his throat that had nothing to do with the cigarette. He glanced down at his body, the subtle curves he still hadn't gotten used to, and felt a wave of disgust. I never wanted this. I didn't want to be a woman. I didn't want to become… this. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling deeply as though the smoke could somehow dull the ache inside him.

Beom's mind was a whirlwind of anger and helplessness. How dare he? How dare he make that decision for me? His teeth clenched as he thought of Yaroslav's smug face, the way the man always acted as though the world revolved around him. "Because of his stupid fantasies," Beom muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with rage. "He thinks he can play god, thinks he can force me into this life, this… this nightmare."

He exhaled sharply, the smoke swirling around his face like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. And for what? So I can give birth to his child? The thought made his stomach churn, a deep-seated revulsion bubbling to the surface. I don't even want kids, especially not with that psycho. What kind of monster does this to someone they claim to care about?

Beom closed his eyes, the frustration building to a crescendo. His mind flashed with images of Yaroslav—his domineering presence, the way he spoke of their future as if Beom had no say in it. It's not a future; it's a prison. The idea of being tied to Yaroslav forever, of being molded into the person he wanted Beom to be, was unbearable.

He stubbed out the cigarette against the railing, the ash falling like a speck of gray snow to the ground below. "I have to get out of here," he whispered to himself, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. Somehow, someway, I have to escape. Before it's too late.

But even as he made the silent vow, a pang of fear crept in. Where would I go? How could I even manage to leave this place? He watches everything, controls everything… Beom shook his head, pushing the doubts aside. No. I'll figure it out. I have to.

The sound of the wind whistling through the trees was his only companion as he stood there, staring into the distance. His breath fogged in the air, a stark reminder of his own fragility in the face of the overwhelming forces against him. But for now, all he had was his determination—and the faint glimmer of hope that, somehow, he'd find a way to reclaim his life.

Beom had been idly watching the snow-covered trees from the balcony when the faint sound of helicopters broke through the serene quiet. The rhythmic thwup-thwup of the blades slicing through the cold air sent a thrill of curiosity and unease coursing through him. It wasn't every day a helicopter landed at the estate, after all. Beom leaned over the balcony's edge, squinting against the glaring white of the snow to spot the aircraft cutting through the gray sky. His heart raced, his earlier idle thoughts forgotten.

"Now what?" he muttered to himself, the cigarette between his fingers burning dangerously close to the filter. He stubbed it out on the metal railing, flicking the stub away before rushing inside, his curiosity outweighing any concern.

Peeking through the window, he saw the helicopter descending gracefully onto the snow-covered helipad in the courtyard. The powerful rotors whipped up clouds of snow, creating a mini blizzard around the landing site. Beom shielded his eyes instinctively, even though he was safely indoors, as the helicopter finally settled. A sense of intrigue gnawed at him—he knew who it was before the figure even emerged.