In the Suburbs of Russia – A Forgotten Warehouse
The bitter chill of the Russian evening crept through the cracks of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow. Shadows stretched long across the dusty floor as the orange glow of a dying sun bled through shattered windows. Inside, silence reigned—until it was broken by the desperate voice of a woman.
"Please, Mr. Smith, I beg you… spare my life," the woman cried, her voice shaking with more than just cold. Her knees dug into the unforgiving concrete, her hands clasped together in a plea for mercy. Her dark curls stuck to her tear-streaked face, and her once-glamorous coat now clung to her like a shroud.
Across from her stood an older man, dressed immaculately in a wool trench coat, his expression as emotionless as the frost in the air. His name was Manuel Smith, a name whispered in the criminal underworld with both reverence and fear.
He looked down at the girl—Isabel—with eyes as sharp and cold as a knife.
"You betrayed us, Isabel," he said flatly, his voice void of warmth. "And all under the pretense of loving my son. Do you think we are fools?"
"No… I loved Adam! I swear to you—" she began, but Manuel raised a hand, silencing her.
"We were preparing your wedding. You would have become part of the family," he muttered with an edge of disdain. "But the truth always finds its way to the surface. And your truth was filth."
He turned to one of his guards. "Jonathan. Bring the gun. Let's finish this disgrace."
The warehouse door creaked open suddenly.
In stepped a man whose presence commanded silence. He was tall, his broad shoulders blocking out the fading sun behind him. A black leather jacket clung to his muscled frame, and his jet-black hair was slightly tousled. His eyes—dark, dangerous, and sharp—scanned the room. In his hand was a silver handgun.
Adam Smith.
Son of the Mafia king. He was known for his silence, his efficiency, and most of all, his loyalty—to the family, not emotions.
His gaze fell upon Isabel. For a brief second, something in his eyes shifted—flickered.
"Adam, please," she whispered. "Tell them the truth. You know I didn't—"
Bang…
The sound cracked like thunder across the room.
Her sentence was never finished.
The bullet entered her skull clean and exited just as cruelly. She fell back with a quiet, almost graceful slump. Blood pooled beneath her, the final red bloom in a place devoid of life.
Silence.
Even Manuel blinked, taken aback by the cold decisiveness of his son. But then, a smile curled at the edge of his lips.
"My son," he said with satisfaction. He placed a firm hand on Adam's shoulder. "You've learned to act like a man."
Without another word, he turned and left, taking half of the guards with him.
The others lingered, unsure of what to do. But Adam—he hadn't moved. He hadn't looked away from Isabel's body.
"Get out," he growled at the men, and they obeyed immediately.
When he was alone, Adam stepped forward slowly, as if in a daze. He knelt down beside her. Gently, almost reverently, he pulled her into his arms.
Her warmth was already leaving her.
"Isabel…" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Isabel, get up. Let's go home. I… I'll make us tea. Like we always do. You love that stupid honey flavor… remember?"
He shook slightly. His hands were trembling.
"You can't be cold, baby. Let's just… go lie down in my bed. I'll keep you warm. I promise."
But death doesn't answer promises.
His lips brushed her cold forehead. One tear slipped from his eye, landing on her cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
"I gave you everything," he whispered. "My love. My loyalty. And now you're just… gone?"
He squeezed her tight one last time.
"Don't fly away, my butterfly…"
When he stood again, there was no emotion left on his face.
Just hollow.
"Dispose of the body," he told the guards outside. "Dump it in a river. Somewhere deep."
"Yes, sir."
And like that, Isabel became a memory buried in water and silence.
Two Years Later – Paris
Sunlight bathed the sleek apartment in warm gold, but Lucy Maureen sat curled on the couch, tears streaming down her cheeks like a broken fountain. The television was on, forgotten. An untouched coffee mug rested on the table, growing cold.
Her boyfriend—no, ex-boyfriend—stood in front of her with the same indifference someone might use to return a borrowed book.
"Lucy, it's over," Bob said, not meeting her eyes.
"Five years, Bob," she sobbed. "We've been together since we were kids! How can you just throw that away?"
"I'm already in another relationship," he replied flatly. "Besides… it's not cheating if you're always away."
"What—?" Her voice cracked.
"I moved on, Lucy. Maybe you should too."
And just like that, he turned and walked out of her life. Without remorse. Without looking back.
Lucy collapsed to the floor, unable to breathe past the lump in her throat. He had been her everything—her best friend, her lover, her anchor.
Now he was nothing.
A Glimpse Into Her Past
Lucy Maureen. 25 years old. A bright, witty woman with a heart too big for this world.
She studied psychology in Paris and always found a reason to laugh. But behind that smile was a storm.
Her parents died in a mysterious car crash five years ago. She had never fully believed it was an accident. Since then, she had been raised by a kind but secretive adoptive father who treated her like his own daughter.
But even he couldn't heal her heartbreaks.
"Stop crying, Lucy. You're torturing yourself," said Anna, rolling her eyes as she flopped onto the couch beside her. "A whole month? Really?"
Lucy sniffled. "It's not just Bob. It's everything…"
Anna threw a pillow at her. "Excuse me? It's been five damn years since your parents passed. You've survived worse. And you're stronger than you think."
Lucy gave a small, sad smile. "You really think so?"
Anna nodded. "And guess what? You're coming with me to Japan next week. I have a business trip, and you need to stop drowning in your own tears."
"I don't know, Anna…"
"Shhh. If you don't come, I'll never speak to you again."
And that was that.
One Week Later – Domodedovo Airport, Moscow
"Lucy," Anna said excitedly, "What if we married Japanese men?"
Lucy blinked. "What?"
"Just imagine! If they break our hearts, we wouldn't care. They all look alike—easy to replace!"
Lucy burst out laughing. "Anna, you're insane."
They boarded the plane, bound for Japan, unaware that fate was twisting its threads tighter than ever before.
🛬 Japan – Tokyo to Osaka
The week in Japan was like a dream. From neon-lit nights in Shibuya to sipping coffee in Kyoto's peaceful gardens, Lucy slowly began to smile again.
But in Osaka—everything changed.
Lucy wandered near the company where Anna had her final meeting. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she realized her phone had died—and with it, her hotel details.
Frustrated, she ducked into a local supermarket, hoping to find someone who spoke English.
At the same moment, in the dark alleys behind the city, Adam Smith—yes, the Adam—was bleeding. He'd been ambushed. Shot in the leg. Alone.
Desperate for supplies, he stumbled into the same supermarket.
And that's where he saw her.
Her.
Isabel.
But it wasn't Isabel.
Still, the resemblance knocked the air from his lungs.
He stumbled, collapsed onto the floor.
Lucy rushed to him. "Sir? Are you okay? Oh god, you're hurt!"
"Don't call an ambulance," he whispered. "My hotel… nearby…"
"You're bleeding!"
"Please… help me…"
Against all logic, she helped him up and took him to his hotel room. As she cleaned his wound, he studied her every feature.
"Name?" he asked.
"Lucy. You?"
"Edward," he lied. "From America."
She rolled her eyes. "Edward from America, you talk too much."
He smirked.
She didn't know her life was about to change forever.