SINISTER KRYLOV
Sinister Krylov stood in the corner of the opulent room, his expression an unyielding mask of cold detachment. His gaze swept across the glittering crowd, observing, cataloging, but feeling nothing. The venue reeked of wealth and ambition—things he had amassed in abundance but held no true value for him. A sparkling chandelier hung overhead, refracting light onto the polished faces of models, tycoons, and socialites. Each one had dressed to perfection, each more desperate than the last to be noticed. It was pathetic, really.
He clenched his jaw subtly, adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly tailored suit. He had no interest in the gaudy spectacle, but he was here for a purpose. For Sinister Krylov, nothing was ever accidental. Every step he took, every word he uttered, was deliberate. This gala, with all its meaningless chatter and shallow laughter, was merely a backdrop for something far more critical.
The Bratva—his Bratva—did not tolerate inefficiency. As the head of one of the most powerful branches of the Russian mafia, his every move was calculated. Tonight, he wasn't here for champagne or empty pleasantries. He was here to meet a particular individual: one of the city's most influential fashion moguls, whose businesses were laundering money for rival factions. A man who thought he could play both sides without consequence. Sinister would disabuse him of that notion soon enough.
From his vantage point, he scanned the room with predatory precision, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pinpointed his target. Alexei Karpov stood on the opposite end of the room, laughing boisterously with a group of sycophants. A perfect mask of joviality. But Sinister knew better. Karpov's laughter was hollow, his movements too deliberate, his eyes darting nervously every few minutes. He's afraid, Sinister thought with a grim satisfaction. He should be.
The room buzzed with meaningless noise—conversations about art, investments, and haute couture—but Sinister filtered it out. To him, the people in this room were like pawns on a chessboard: disposable, predictable, and utterly insignificant. The only reason he tolerated their presence was the opportunity they presented. These were the people who built empires out of appearances, who craved influence and would sell their souls for it. It made them easy to manipulate.
As he observed, his attention was drawn to movement in his periphery. A man was approaching him, cutting through the crowd with purpose. Sinister didn't flinch or turn his head, but he noted the man's every step, the practiced confidence in his gait, the way his tailored suit clung to his lean frame. The man was beautiful—undeniably so—but Sinister had long since stopped being moved by beauty. In his world, beauty was just another weapon, a tool to distract and disarm.
The man stopped in front of him, clearing his throat. "Excuse me," he said, his voice smooth and self-assured.
Sinister turned his head slowly, his cold gaze meeting the stranger's dark brown eyes. The man's face was familiar—not personally, but from the countless billboards and magazines plastered across the city. Evyan Malhotra. A name synonymous with perfection, fame, and all the superficial trappings Sinister despised.
"I don't believe we've met," Evyan said, his dazzling smile lighting up his face as he extended a hand.
"I'm Evyan Malhotra," he continued, his voice smooth and confident. "It's a pleasure."
For a moment, Sinister said nothing, his eyes flicking from Evyan's outstretched hand to his polished smile. It was an excellent performance. But Sinister had no interest in the man's charm. He saw through it instantly, recognizing it for what it was: a mask.
After a deliberate pause, he finally spoke, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "Sinister Krylov."
He didn't take the hand right away, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably between them before finally gripping it briefly. The contact was fleeting, firm but indifferent.
Sinister's gaze didn't waver. "I don't know who you are," he replied flatly. It wasn't a lie. While he recognized the man's face, he hadn't bothered to commit his name to memory. People like Evyan were a dime a dozen in this world—beautiful, famous, and utterly irrelevant.
Evyan's reaction was almost amusing. The slight hesitation, the way his confident façade wavered, betrayed the sting of being unrecognized. He's used to being the center of attention, Sinister thought, filing the observation away.
"I'm a model," Evyan offered, his tone still confident but tinged with curiosity now. "You might have seen me in some of the campaigns."
"Perhaps," Sinister said nonchalantly, his gaze drifting back to the crowd. "But I'm not here to keep up with the latest trends or names. I don't pay attention to the fashion world."
It wasn't meant as an insult, though he knew it would be taken as one. He simply didn't care. His world operated in shadows, far removed from the glittering stage that Evyan seemed to inhabit.
Evyan didn't seem deterred, though. If anything, the indifference only piqued his interest. "So what brings you to an event like this?"
Sinister turned back to him, his expression unreadable. "Why do you think I'm here?"
Evyan raised an eyebrow, clearly unaccustomed to being questioned. "I'm guessing you're not exactly the 'party' type."
Sinister allowed the faintest flicker of amusement to touch his lips, though it never reached his eyes. "People are predictable," he said, his tone measured. "You all come here to network, to be seen, to gather power and influence. You wear the same masks, repeat the same routines, talk the same empty words. There is nothing new here for me."
He could see the words sink in, could see the way they unsettled Evyan. Good. Let him feel exposed. Let him feel what it's like to be truly seen.
For a moment, Evyan said nothing, his gaze searching Sinister's face. "I've met a lot of people in this industry, Sinister, but I've never met anyone quite like you."
Sinister's lips twitched again, but his eyes remained cold. "I am not here to be noticed," he said bluntly. "I am here because I can be. The question is, why are you here?"
Evyan hesitated, clearly unprepared for the question. When he finally answered, his voice was quieter, more honest. "I'm here because I'm bored. I've seen it all, heard it all. This," he gestured vaguely at the room, "it's all so… shallow. I thought maybe I could find something interesting for once."
For the first time, Sinister allowed a trace of understanding to creep into his expression. He had been where Evyan was once, disillusioned by the emptiness of it all. But unlike Evyan, he had clawed his way out, forging a new path in a world far darker and more dangerous.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "the interest you seek is not here. You will find it in places you least expect."
With that, Sinister turned away, ending the conversation as abruptly as it had begun. He didn't look back, even as he felt Evyan's eyes linger on him. The model's fascination was palpable, but it was irrelevant.
Evyan Malhotra was just another face in a sea of unremarkable faces, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that their brief interaction had shifted something—something he couldn't quite define. And that was unsettling.
Sinister Krylov didn't have time for distractions. His prey was waiting, and tonight, someone would learn the cost of underestimating him