The air in the training hall was thick, metallic and sharp, like blood had lived there too long.
Mikhail barely had time to lift his guard before the first punch landed.
It wasn't a warning strike.
It was meant to test him.
His head snapped to the side. The taste of iron flooded his mouth. He steadied himself, boots scraping against the mat as the instructor circled him like prey.
"Again," his father's voice echoed from the balcony above.
Not loud or angry, just... expectant.
Mikhail lunged first this time.
A clean jab, that was fast and precise to the best of his knowledge.
A knee drove into his abdomen before he could recover. The air left his lungs in a violent rush. He dropped to one knee, vision flashing white at the edges.
"Too slow," one of the higher-ups muttered.
He heard it.
Of course he heard it.
He forced himself up.
His ribs screamed in protest. His hands were already swelling, knuckles split open from the last session. He could feel the tremor in his muscles, exhaustion was creeping in, quiet but relentless.
The instructor didn't hesitate and landed another strike
Mikhail hit the floor hard.
The impact rattled his bones. For half a second, just half- he wanted to stay there.
Stay down and let someone else be the heir.
"Stand."
His father again.
Not "Are you alright?"
Not "Take a break."
Just one word.
Stand.
Mikhail pushed himself up slowly. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth onto the mat. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and rolled his shoulders back into position.
His opponent charged.
This time, Mikhail didn't think.
He reacted.
He slipped to the side. Elbow to the ribs.
The instructor staggered.
A murmur rippled through the observers.
But it wasn't enough.
A fist caught him across the cheekbone, splitting the skin. Pain exploded behind his eye. He stumbled, barely keeping his footing.
His vision blurred.
His lungs burned.
His body was begging him to stop.
The fight with Rocco ended the way the whispers said it would.
With Mikhail on the floor.
His chest heaved violently, one eye already swelling shut. His shoulder burned where it had partially given out. Rocco stood a few feet away, breathing hard but steady victorious.
From the balcony above, the Don finally spoke.
"Leave us."
The higher-ups didn't argue. Their chairs scrapped an footsteps retreated. Rocco hesitated before nodding once and exiting the hall.
The heavy doors shut.
The silence that followed was worse than the fight.
Mikhail rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling lights that blurred into white halos. He didn't try to get up this time.
Footsteps echoed slowly against the concrete.
His father descended the metal staircase without looking at him.
"Misha."
The nickname sounded unfamiliar in that voice.
Mikhail forced himself to sit up. Pain flared along his ribs. His hands trembled, but he hid them against his thighs.
"Yes, Sir."
"Fight."
Mikhail blinked.
Confusion cut through the haze.
"I-"
The punch came out of nowhere.
It wasn't wild like Rocco's.
It was quite precise.
His father's fist connected with his cheekbone, snapping his head sideways. The impact sent him crashing back onto the mat.
Stars burst behind his eyes.
He barely heard the words over the ringing in his ears.
"If you want to prove yourself," the Don said calmly, stepping closer, "you have to train and beat Rocco."
Mikhail tasted blood again. He pushed himself onto his elbows, dazed.
"You have to learn to survive."
Another strike - this one to his ribs.
Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to remind.
"I know you can do better."
Mikhail's last punch barely grazed his father's shoulder.
The Don caught his wrist mid-swing, and twisted it forcing him to his knees
"Enough."
His father crouched slightly so they were eye level.
His expression wasn't angry.
That made it worse.
"So stop being such a disgrace."
The word hit harder than the punch.
Disgrace.
He released him like he was nothing.
"Clean yourself up."
And then he walked away, without looking back or helping him up.
Mikhail stayed there for a moment, staring at his blood on the floor.
Then he stood slowly.
Every step toward his room felt heavier than the last.
The door to his room closed with a dull click behind him.
Mikhail didn't bother turning on the lights.
He walked straight to the bed and let himself fall onto it, still half-dressed, boots hanging off the edge. Every breath dragged against his ribs. His knuckles throbbed in rhythm with his pulse.
He lifted his forearm to his face, pressing it over his eyes as if that could block out the pain.
A knock came at the door.
It was soft, not loud or urgent, Three measured taps, the kind that never startled him. Mikhail didn't need to ask who it was because No one else knocked like that.
For a moment, he considered saying nothing.
The knock came again.
"Misha."
His chest tightened slightly.
He dropped his arm from his face.
"Come in."
The door opened quietly.
Markov stepped inside without turning on the light either. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a second, just watching.
Taking in the bruises.
The dried blood.
The way Mikhail wasn't moving.
"You look worse than usual," Markov said evenly.
Mikhail let out something between a laugh and a breath.
"Rocco won."
Silence.
Markov didn't react the way the others did. He passed no judgement or evaluation
He stepped closer.
"And your father?" Markov asked.
Mikhail stared at the ceiling again.
"He finished what Rocco started."
"Did you break anything?" Markov asked, his eyes scanning every bruise, every cut.
Mikhail lifted his head, wincing as movement pulled at his ribs. He ran a hand over his jaw, swollen and tender. "I don't think so," he admitted, voice low. Then, almost ashamed, he added, "I feel like I was holding back on Rocco."
Markov stepped closer. Every motion deliberate, controlled, yet there was something in his eyes- a flicker of care Mikhail wasn't used to. "Holding back?" he said softly yet mockingly.
Mikhail let out a humorless laugh, They both knew Rocco had beaten him fair and square.
Mikhail's voice broke the silence. "I… I miss him so much," he whispered, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Koyla… I feel like he blocked me out of his life. I just… I just want to apologize. To hug him. Tell him I didn't mean to hurt him… that I just…"
He trailed off, hands clenching the sheets as if holding onto them could stop his chest from breaking.
Markov didn't say a word at first. He knelt beside the bed and gently took Mikhail's hands in his, warm and steady. The touch was light, careful, but enough to make Mikhail's fingers tremble in response.
Mikhail looked down at their joined hands. His heart thudded painfully, a mixture of longing and something heavier, deeper, that made his chest ache in a way he didn't fully understand. A small, nervous smile tugged at his lips.
Markov's gaze softened, but it was unwavering. "You're hurting," he said quietly, voice low, grounding. "It's okay to feel it. You don't have to carry it alone."
Mikhail's pulse skipped as he swallowed. He wanted-needed-to lean into Markov, to feel more of that warmth, that reassurance. He wanted to hug him, to cling, but something held him back, a hesitation he couldn't name.
Markov tilted his head slightly, reading him like he always did. "Are you okay?" he asked, his thumb brushing gently over Mikhail's knuckles.
Mikhail hesitated, then nodded, though his eyes betrayed him. "I… I think I will be," he murmured. His smile was small, fragile, but it was there - just for Markov.
The room was quiet except for their breathing. The pain, the longing, the ache of missing Koyla lingered in the air, but Markov's presence grounded Mikhail in a way he hadn't realized he needed.
For a heartbeat, he imagined wrapping his arms around Markov, feeling that calm, strong presence close, letting the tension in his body slip away. He didn't move. He couldn't. But his heart throbbed at the thought.
Mikhail's fingers were still curled around Markov's.
Neither of them had moved.
The room was quiet maybe too quiet - the kind of silence that makes you aware of every breath, every shift of fabric, every beat of your heart.
Mikhail looked up at him.
Not as the heir. Not as a fighter. Not as someone who had to prove himself.
Just… as Misha.
His eyes were still glassy from talking about Koyla.
Markov's hand hadn't left his.
His thumb brushed lightly over Mikhail's wounded knuckles again
Mikhail's breath hitched from the pain.
He didn't pull away.
Instead, he leaned forward slightly.
Markov noticed.
Their faces were closer now.
Close enough that Mikhail could see the faint scar near Markov's jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," Markov murmured.
"Like what?" Mikhail whispered.
"Like you need something."
Mikhail smirked.
Maybe he did.
His heart was pounding now, not from the fight, not from Koyla, not from ambition.
From this.
From the way Markov was looking at him.
He leaned in just a little more.
Markov didn't step back.
For a second -just one suspended, fragile second - neither of them pretended.
Their foreheads almost brushed.
Markov's eyes dropped to Mikhail's lips.
And Mikhail noticed.
His breath slowed.
His hand slid from Mikhail's knuckles to his wrist, firmer now, anchoring him.
"Misha…" he warned softly.
But he didn't move away.
Mikhail closed the distance.
Barely an inch left.
And then-
A Sharp, Loud sudden knock cracked through the silence.
Both of them jerked back instantly.
The spell shattered
Markov stood up so fast, he almost tumbled over. His expression was already composed again , controlled and unreadable as usual.
Mikhail's chest was heaving.
"Come in," he managed, voice strained.
The door opened.
A servant stepped inside, head bowed.
"Sir. The doctor has arrived. The Don has requested he examine you immediately."
Mikhail didn't respond right away.
He was still feeling it.
The almost.
The warmth that had been inches away.
Markov had already stepped back into his usual distance. Hands behind his back .He was about leaving
"Stay," Mikhail said calmly and sounded so professional like nothing had almost happened.
Markov forced himself to nod.
Mikhail's lips still tingled, replaying what almost happened in his head
And when he glanced at Markov again, just for a second-
He realized something terrifying.
He hadn't been thinking about Koyla.
Not in that moment.
The doctor's voice blended into background noise.
"Deep breath."
The doctor examined him in silence, fingers pressing carefully along his ribs.
Mikhail hissed when pressure met bruised flesh.
"No fractures," the doctor finally said. "Just a bruised rib."
He straightened, already reaching for his bag. "Rest. Eat properly. Avoid heavy strain for a few days."
Mikhail almost laughed at that.
Avoid strain?
In this place?
The doctor scribbled something onto a prescription pad and handed it to the servant. "Analgesics. Twice daily."
Then, after a few more clipped instructions, he packed his things.
The door closed softly behind him a few minutes later.
"Why are you standing over there?" he asked quietly.
Markov didn't turn immediately. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
Silence.
Finally, Markov faced him.
His expression was composed. Too composed.
"You're injured," Markov said. "You're emotional. It would be irresponsible of me to blur lines right now."
Blur lines.?
"What?" Mikhail said
Markov's eyes darkened as he looked at him. "Misha… that shouldn't have happened."
"Nothing happened," he said softly but it sounded almost defensive and so defeated
Markov's jaw flexed. "…Maybe not. But the way you leaned in… the way you looked at me… we both know it wasn't nothing."
Mikhail's chest tightened. He wanted to argue. He wanted to deny it. But deep down, he couldn't. He had wanted it. He wanted him.
Markov took a step back, finally reclaiming distance. "I can't…" he said, voice rougher than intended.
Mikhail's fingers itched to reach out, to anchor himself to Markov's presence. His lips parted, but no sound came. He just stayed there, chest rising and falling, heart thundering.
Markov's eyes lingered on him, conflicted, guilty, burning with unspoken want. Then, almost painfully, he turned. Each step toward the door stretched the tension tighter.
"Rest," he said finally, voice firm but low. "You'll need your strength tomorrow."
Mikhail nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yeah… rest."
The door clicked shut behind Markov.
Mikhail exhaled slowly, hands clenching the edge of the bed. The warmth, the closeness, the almost… it was gone, but it had left him raw, exposed, aching.
Markov, on the other side of the door, pressed his palm against the wood for a heartbeat. His chest tightened. He wanted to turn back. To step in. To give in to what they both felt.
But he didn't.
They couldn't.
And yet… neither of them could forget.