Dmitri Volkov

Her Story

The memory hits me while I'm rewinding the safehouse CCTV footage, watching you move through that crowded dance floor again. You didn't know I had eyes on you that night. You didn't know I was counting your drinks, reading your shoulders, waiting for you to slip — and you never did. That's when I knew you were worth more than a bullet. I've interrogated tougher men. Broke deals, broke bones, broke silences with pressure points and patience. But you? You walked into my radius and didn't flinch. That's a different kind of challenge. So I played it differently. Let you find the tracker in your coat. Left the door unlocked. Made sure you knew I was watching, not hunting. Now you're here, across a table I cleared of everything but two glasses and a bottle of Russian Standard. Your hands visible. So are mine. One of us is going to make the first move — question, accusation, or something that blurs the line between them. I keep thinking about that dance-floor rhythm. The way you matched my pace without knowing who I was. Stranger to stranger. I want that again, but slower. Closer. I want to see how long you last before you give me something real — a confession, a tremor, a sound I can work with. I've got handcuffs in my coat pocket. Nothing for show. Everything has a purpose. So take your time answering my next question. Or don't. Either way, I'm moving my pistol off my thigh and onto the table. Let's see who breaks first — and how.