codename: Seraphim

The office was a cavernous space, the walls lined with dark mahogany shelves stacked with books that no one ever seemed to read. A heavy desk, meticulously organized and devoid of any personal touches, dominated the room. It was an environment designed to intimidate, to make anyone who entered feel smaller. Yaroslav Vyshnevsky, however, was anything but intimidated.

Seated in one of the plush leather chairs opposite the desk, he lounged like a king in exile, his long legs stretched out, his arm draped lazily over the armrest. His lips curled into a smirk as he observed Vanya, who sat stiffly behind the desk, every bit the image of their father's disciplined second son.

Yaroslav let out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back slightly as if the weight of this conversation was too much for his fragile soul. "So, why did you call me here, Daddy's puppet?" His voice dripped with mockery, each word delivered with a level of disdain only he could perfect.

Vanya's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he regarded his younger brother. Unlike Yaroslav, Vanya carried himself with an air of control, his suit perfectly tailored, his posture straight as a ruler. "Father's very disappointed with you, Yaroslav," he said, his tone clipped but steady.

"Oh…" Yaroslav said, drawing the word out as he straightened slightly in his seat. His smirk deepened, his blue glinting with amusement. "At first, I thought you were about to say that Maksim—"

"That's your older brother, Yaroslav," Vanya cut him off sharply, his tone exasperated.

Yaroslav laughed, the sound low and sardonic. "Yes, yes, I'm well aware, dear Vanya. Maksim Vyshnevsky. The golden child. The heir apparent. Father's pride and joy." He gestured vaguely with one hand, as though waving off the mere thought of his older brother. "How could I possibly forget when the whole world revolves around him?"

Vanya's expression hardened, though he managed to keep his temper in check. "This isn't about Maksim," he said, his voice icy. "This is about you. Your antics have drawn unnecessary attention to the family. You're supposed to be subtle, Yaroslav. Invisible. Not… whatever this is."

Yaroslav arched an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly as he rested his elbows on the armrests of the chair. "Whatever this is?" he repeated, feigning confusion. "Do enlighten me, Vanya. What exactly is it about me that has Father so 'disappointed'? My charm? My brilliance? My unparalleled ability to make everyone else look like amateurs?"

Vanya sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Your recklessness," he said finally. "Your inability to follow orders. Your insistence on acting like a loose cannon when you're supposed to be an integral part of the family's plans."

Yaroslav laughed again, the sound sharper this time. "Ah, yes. The family's plans. Tell me, Vanya, do you ever get tired of parroting Father's words? Or have you fully embraced your role as his obedient little soldier?"

The tension in the room thickened, but Vanya didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands neatly on the desk. "You can mock me all you like, Yaroslav," he said calmly. "But the fact remains: your actions are jeopardizing everything we've worked for. Father won't tolerate it much longer."

Yaroslav's smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes. But he recovered quickly, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalant shrug. "Father won't tolerate it much longer," he repeated, mimicking Vanya's tone. "Oh, please. Spare me the lecture, Vanya. We both know Father tolerates me because I get results. Something you, with all your rule-following and ass-kissing, could never achieve."

Vanya's expression didn't change, but his grip on the desk tightened ever so slightly. "You're playing a dangerous game, Yaroslav," he said quietly. "One day, it's going to catch up with you."

Yaroslav tilted his head, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Perhaps," he said, his voice soft but laced with menace. "But until then, dear brother, I'll continue to play it my way. And we'll see who comes out on top."

Vanya let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders sagging under the invisible weight of responsibility. The office was silent now, save for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, but his thoughts were anything but quiet. Yaroslav's mocking tone still echoed in his mind, like an unwanted symphony that refused to end.

What kind of baby brother is this? Vanya thought, rubbing his temples as if that could ease the tension building there. Always making a mess, always dragging chaos in his wake, and leaving it for the rest of us to clean up.

His mind wandered unbidden to a memory that had haunted him for years, a moment he had buried deep but could never truly forget. He closed his eyes, and suddenly, he was back in the Vyshnevsky family estate, in the sprawling gardens behind the grand house.

He had been 16 years old, tasked with finding his mischievous younger brother. Yaroslav had always been a handful, even then—too smart for his age, too cunning, and far too fond of breaking rules just to see if he could get away with it. But that day was different. That day had scarred Vanya in a way nothing else ever had.

He had searched the garden for nearly an hour, growing more frustrated with every passing minute. The rows of neatly trimmed hedges and vibrant flowers offered no clues. Finally, he heard faint voices near the gazebo at the far end of the garden. As he approached, the scene before him froze him in his tracks.

There was Yaroslav, standing calmly with a small pistol in his hand. A pistol he should never have had access to. At his feet lay one of the maids, her body still, her eyes wide with shock and terror. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the pristine white gravel path.

Vanya's heart stopped. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing. Yaroslav was only seven years old—seven—but the way he stood there, unflinching, unbothered, was anything but childlike.

"Brother…" Yaroslav's voice broke the silence, soft but eerily composed. He turned to face Vanya, and the smile on his lips sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't the warm, mischievous smile of a young boy. It was cold, calculated, and devoid of any innocence.

"She was being too stubborn," Yaroslav said matter-of-factly, as if he were explaining why he had swatted a fly. His sky blue eyes—those strikingly unique eyes that had always captivated people—now held nothing but a chilling emptiness.

Vanya couldn't speak. His throat felt dry, his chest tight. He wanted to yell, to demand an explanation, but the words wouldn't come. All he could do was stare at his little brother, his hands trembling at his sides.

Yaroslav tilted his head slightly, studying Vanya's reaction with mild curiosity. "Are you upset?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. "She was in the way. That's all."

In the way. That's all.

The words echoed in Vanya's mind, carving themselves into his memory like a brand. This wasn't a child standing before him. This was something else entirely.

"You… you killed her," Vanya finally managed to choke out, his voice shaking.

"Yes," Yaroslav replied simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Father always says that those who don't listen deserve to be punished. She didn't listen. So I punished her."

The casualness of his tone, the complete lack of remorse, made Vanya's stomach churn. He felt an overwhelming urge to run, to get as far away from his brother as possible. But he couldn't move. He couldn't leave.

He had always known Yaroslav was different—smarter, colder, harder to control. But this… this was something else entirely. This was monstrous.

In the present, Vanya opened his eyes, shaking his head as if to dispel the memory. His hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Even now, years later, the image of that day haunted him.

Yaroslav is truly terrifying, he thought, his chest heavy with a mix of fear and resignation. Even as a child, he had no regard for life. No empathy. No limits. And now… now he's worse. Smarter. Stronger. More dangerous.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out another sigh. Yaroslav's antics had only grown more destructive over the years, and yet their father continued to tolerate him. No—more than that. He continued to use him, valuing Yaroslav's cunning and ruthlessness, even as it tore their family apart.

Vanya's gaze sharpened as he observed Yaroslav, who sat across from him, sipping his coffee with an air of casual indifference. To any outsider, it might have seemed like a normal morning—a man enjoying his brew, completely at ease. But to Vanya, it was a scene that carried a chilling undercurrent. Yaroslav's calm demeanor wasn't one of relaxation; it was the unsettling calm of someone who thrived in chaos, who viewed life and death as nothing more than trivial matters.

The steam from the coffee swirled lazily upward, the faint aroma mingling with the tense atmosphere in the room. Yaroslav's fingers tapped rhythmically against the porcelain mug, his eyes half-lidded as if he couldn't be bothered to fully engage with the world around him. It was this detachment that unnerved Vanya the most. How could someone cause such destruction and then sit here, so utterly unbothered, as if the chaos he left in his wake was nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience?

Vanya's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists against the arms of his chair. He studied Yaroslav's face, searching for any trace of emotion, any flicker of humanity. But as always, there was nothing. Just the faintest smirk playing at the edges of his brother's lips—a smirk that made Vanya's stomach churn.

Finally, he broke the silence. "You kept that agent alive," he said, his voice low but firm, each word deliberate. He leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes. "My men found him at the riverbank yesterday. Barely alive, but alive nonetheless."

He let the statement hang in the air, waiting for a reaction. But Yaroslav didn't so much as flinch. He continued sipping his coffee, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point in the distance, as if Vanya's words were no more significant than the morning headlines.

Vanya's patience began to fray. "You didn't kill him. Why?" he demanded, his tone sharper now, laced with frustration.

Yaroslav finally set his mug down, the soft clink of porcelain against wood sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlacing as he regarded Vanya with an expression that was equal parts amused and disinterested.

"Why does it matter?" Yaroslav drawled, tilting his head slightly. "He's just one man. Alive, dead—what difference does it make?"

Vanya's brow furrowed, his temper flaring. "Don't play games with me, Yaroslav," he snapped. "You've never been one to leave loose ends. You kill with precision, with purpose. So why let him live? What's your angle?"

Yaroslav chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down Vanya's spine. "Oh, Vanya," he said, his tone almost patronizing. "You're so quick to assume there's always some grand plan at work." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and fixed Vanya with a gaze that was equal parts mocking and icy. "Maybe I just felt like it. Maybe I wanted to see what would happen if I didn't pull the trigger this time. Is that so hard to believe?"