Vanya's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. He didn't believe Yaroslav for a second. There was always a reason behind his actions, even if it wasn't immediately apparent. He was manipulative, calculating—a master of the long game. Letting the agent live wasn't an accident or a whim; it was a move on a chessboard that only Yaroslav could see.
"You don't do anything without a reason," Vanya said, his voice steady but tense. "You've never been one for mercy, so don't insult me by pretending otherwise. What are you playing at?"
Yaroslav's smirk widened, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Perhaps I'm not playing at all," he said cryptically. "Perhaps I'm simply... observing. Letting the pieces fall where they may."
Vanya's frustration boiled over. "Enough with the riddles, Yaroslav!" he snapped, slamming a hand down on the table. "This isn't a game! That agent—Beom-ki—he's a liability. If he talks, if he exposes us—"
"He won't," Yaroslav interrupted, his tone suddenly sharp, cutting through Vanya's words like a blade. His expression darkened, his smirk fading into something far more menacing. "He won't talk. Trust me on that."
Vanya felt a chill run down his spine at the certainty in Yaroslav's voice. It wasn't a reassurance—it was a warning.
"And if he does?" Vanya pressed, unwilling to back down.
Yaroslav's cold smile returned, but this time it was tinged with something darker. "Then I'll deal with it," he said simply, his tone so casual it was almost dismissive. "But until then, let me enjoy my coffee, dear brother."
Vanya stared at him, his chest tightening with a mixture of anger and unease. He wanted to push further, to demand answers, but he knew it would be pointless. Yaroslav was a master of control, and he wouldn't reveal anything he didn't want to.
Vanya's voice cut through the stillness of the room like a blade, sharp and accusing. His words lingered in the air, heavy with suspicion and a tinge of fear. "What happened to Namjoon? This morning, he was found dead—his limbs cut off. Was it you? Did you do it?"
For a moment, the only sound was the faint clink of Yaroslav's coffee cup as he set it down on its saucer. The question hung in the air, unanswered, as Vanya studied his brother's face intently. Yaroslav didn't react right away. Instead, he took his time, his hand lingering on the handle of the cup as though savoring the pause before delivering his response.
Finally, Yaroslav lifted his gaze to meet Vanya's, his expression unreadable. His lips curved into a grin—one that was neither warm nor reassuring, but cold and laced with a hint of malice. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the accusation, and then… he shrugged. The gesture was maddeningly casual, dismissive, as if the grisly murder of Namjoon was no more significant than a broken piece of furniture.
Vanya felt his stomach churn. The nonchalance with which Yaroslav carried himself was nothing short of terrifying. The grin on his face was unnerving—a predator's grin, one that hinted at a deeper, more dangerous truth lurking beneath the surface. He hadn't denied it. He hadn't confirmed it, either. But in Yaroslav's world, a lack of denial was as good as a confession.
"You're not even going to deny it?" Vanya pressed, his voice tightening as his frustration mounted. He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge Yaroslav's intentions. "Namjoon wasn't just some random operative. He was one of ours—loyal, efficient. And now he's dead. Limbs severed, mutilated. That kind of message doesn't send itself, Yaroslav."
Yaroslav finally broke his silence, though not with words. He chuckled—a low, chilling sound that sent a shiver down Vanya's spine. It wasn't the laugh of someone amused by a harmless joke. It was the laugh of someone who found humor in chaos, in violence, in the suffering of others.
He leaned back in his chair, the grin still plastered across his face. "Why so serious, brother?" he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. "Do you really think I'm the only one capable of such… artistry?"
Vanya's jaw clenched. "This isn't a game, Yaroslav," he snapped, his voice rising slightly. "Namjoon's death wasn't just a message; it was a declaration. If you did it, then you've put us all in danger. Do you even understand the consequences?"
Yaroslav's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with a twisted amusement. "Oh, Vanya," he said, shaking his head slightly. "You give me far too much credit. Perhaps Namjoon simply made enemies in the wrong places. Or perhaps…" He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Perhaps he wasn't as loyal as you thought."
Vanya felt his chest tighten, a mix of anger and unease flooding through him. He didn't trust Yaroslav—not for a second—but he couldn't entirely dismiss his words, either. Namjoon had been a trusted operative, but trust was a fragile thing in their world. Secrets were currency, and alliances shifted like sand in the wind.
Still, the brutality of Namjoon's death felt personal, intimate. It was a signature style—one that Vanya couldn't ignore. And it was all too similar to Yaroslav's previous… "work."
"You're playing with fire," Vanya said through gritted teeth. "If this was your doing, then you've crossed a line. Father won't—"
"Father won't do anything," Yaroslav interrupted, his tone cold and dismissive. The grin vanished from his face, replaced by a steely, calculating expression. "He never does. He talks about rules, about discipline, but when it comes to me…" He spread his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. "He turns a blind eye. Always has. Always will."
Vanya's hands tightened into fists. He wanted to argue, to shout, to demand answers, but the truth in Yaroslav's words stung more than he cared to admit. Their father's favoritism had always been an open secret, one that Yaroslav exploited with ruthless efficiency.
"You're not untouchable," Vanya said finally, his voice low and steady. "One day, you'll push too far. Even Father won't be able to save you then."
Yaroslav's grin returned, colder and more dangerous than before. "Maybe," he said softly, picking up his coffee again. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Vanya's. "But until that day comes, dear brother…" He set the cup down, his smirk widening. "I'll keep playing my games. And you'll keep cleaning up my messes."
The words hit Vanya like a slap, and for a moment, he could only stare at Yaroslav, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. This wasn't just a conversation—it was a power play, a reminder of Yaroslav's dominance, his ability to manipulate and control everyone around him.
The shrill ringing of two phones shattered the uneasy silence in the room, the sound cutting through the air like a blade. Vanya froze for a moment, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the devices on his desk. Both phones were ringing simultaneously, the same unknown number displayed on their screens. His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his thoughts. This wasn't a coincidence.
Slowly, he reached for one of the phones, his fingers hovering over it as he felt a cold sense of dread settling in his chest. But before he could answer, he paused and raised his head, his gaze locking onto Yaroslav. There he was, sitting casually at the small table, his demeanor as calm and detached as ever, sipping his coffee as though nothing in the world could disturb his peace.
"Yaroslav," Vanya began, his voice low and sharp, laced with restrained anger. "What is this, huh? What's all this?"
Yaroslav didn't respond right away. Instead, he set his cup down with deliberate slowness, the faint clink of porcelain against the table seeming louder in the tense atmosphere. His eyes, cold and unreadable, lifted to meet Vanya's. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question, his expression one of faint amusement.
"Are you now trying to stalk your family members too?" Vanya demanded, his tone rising as he gestured at the ringing phones. He could feel his anger bubbling to the surface, his patience worn thin by Yaroslav's infuriating indifference. "What kind of game are you playing this time, little brother?"
Yaroslav's response was maddeningly typical. He simply stared at Vanya, his expression unreadable, before shrugging his shoulders in a manner that could only be described as infuriatingly casual. It was as if the entire situation was of no consequence to him, as though the idea of being accused didn't bother him in the slightest.
The gesture lit a fire in Vanya's chest, his anger flaring as he slammed a hand down on the desk. "Don't just shrug at me!" he snapped, his voice echoing in the room. "Do you think this is funny? Do you think you can just do whatever you want, terrorize whoever you like, and get away with it?" His words came fast and sharp, a torrent of frustration that had been building for years.
Yaroslav finally leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other as he regarded Vanya with a faint smirk. "You're always so dramatic, Vanya," he said smoothly, his voice calm and unbothered. "Why would you assume it was me? Plenty of people have your number. Maybe it's one of your many enemies trying to reach out. Or a fan." His smirk widened slightly, the gleam in his eyes taunting. "Who knows?"
The audacity of the response made Vanya's blood boil. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, his hands clenching into fists. Yaroslav was toying with him, like a cat playing with a mouse. And the worst part was that he couldn't prove otherwise—not yet. But deep down, Vanya knew this had Yaroslav's fingerprints all over it. The timing, the synchronization, the way Yaroslav was so utterly unfazed—it was too perfect to be anyone else.
"You think this is some kind of joke?" Vanya growled, his voice low and dangerous. "This family isn't your playground, Yaroslav. You can't just mess with us whenever you feel like it."
Yaroslav tilted his head, his smirk fading slightly as a flicker of something darker crossed his face. "Oh, Vanya," he said softly, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "This family is exactly my playground. And don't forget—every playground needs a king." His eyes gleamed with a cold, unsettling light as he picked up his coffee again, taking another sip as if to punctuate his words.
Vanya felt a chill run down his spine, the weight of Yaroslav's words settling over him like a heavy blanket. He didn't respond right away, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of the situation. The phones were still ringing, the sound relentless, grating against his nerves. He glanced at them again, then back at Yaroslav, who now looked more amused than ever.
In that moment, Vanya realized something that sent a shiver of unease through him: Yaroslav wasn't just playing games. He was sending a message—a reminder of just how far his reach extended, how easily he could disrupt their lives without even breaking a sweat. And the worst part? Vanya had no idea what his little brother was planning next.
Yaroslav's eyes tracked Vanya's every move from behind the office window, his gaze sharp and unblinking. He watched as his older brother strode confidently toward the sleek black car waiting by the curb, the figure of a bodyguard stepping forward to hold the door open. Vanya carried himself with a certain rigidity, a sense of purpose that always seemed to cloak him in an aura of authority. Watching him go, Yaroslav couldn't help but feel a twinge of disdain mixed with an odd sense of amusement. So predictable, so trapped in his dutiful role within the family's empire.