Chapter Text
Snow drifted down onto little Ilya Rozanov’s head as he and his brother stopped in the middle of the forest.
They had been walking for a while now, trying to find the place where their father had told them to meet him. The trees were tall and dark, their branches heavy with snow, the forest quiet except for the crunch of their boots.
Ilya was six. Alexei was twelve.
Alexei suddenly crouched, and Ilya followed his gaze to the ground.
A small bird lay in the snow.
Its wing bent at an unnatural angle, feathers soaked red where it was bleeding slowly into the white snow.
Ilya knelt beside it, frowning.
The little bird’s chest fluttered weakly as it struggled to breathe.
He couldn’t help but think how lonely it must feel, hurting like that out here in the cold forest with no one to help it.
Alexei studied it for a moment before sighing.
“Father says weak things don’t survive,” Alexei muttered.
Ilya looked up at him.
“That doesn’t mean we have to hurt it.”
Alexei didn’t answer. Instead, he stood and walked a few steps away, picking up a heavy rock from the frozen ground.
Ilya’s stomach dropped.
“Alexei,” he said quickly.
His brother came back toward the bird, rock in hand.
“Father would want us to end it,” Alexei said. “Weak things shouldn’t suffer.”
Ilya grabbed his arm before he could swing.
“No!”
The two of them wrestled awkwardly in the snow, boots slipping as they pushed against each other. Alexei was bigger, stronger, but Ilya was stubborn.
Somehow the rock ended up in Ilya’s hands.
Alexei stared at him in frustration.
“The bird is still dying,” Alexei snapped. “It’s hurt. It will just lie here all day until something eats it.”
Ilya hesitated.
“You’re not a hero for leaving it like that.”
The words hit harder than Alexei meant them to.
Little Ilya thought about his mother.
She was always telling him to be gentle with small things.
Be kind, Ilyusha.
But he looked down at the bird again.
Its breathing was shallow now.
Its tiny body trembled in the snow.
Was it gentle… to leave something hurting for so long?
Ilya huffed quietly, frustrated, and shoved the rock back into Alexei’s hands.
“Fine.”
Alexei marched back toward the bird, determined now.
He raised the rock high above his head.
He was going to do it.
Really, he was.
But when he looked down at the bird, its dark eyes stared back at him.
And for a moment… it almost looked afraid.
Like it didn’t want to die.
Alexei hesitated.
The rock suddenly disappeared from his hand.
Before he could react, Ilya stepped forward.
And brought the rock down.
The sound was small.
Quick.
Final.
Blood splattered across the snow and across Ilya’s cherub-soft face.
Alexei froze.
His little brother stood there, breathing hard, the rock still clutched in his small hands.
Ilya looked up at him.
“It had to be done,” he said quietly.
Then he glanced down at the bird.
“It was not right.”
They heard footsteps crunching through the snow behind them.
Both boys turned.
Out of the cold forest stepped their father.
Grigori Rozanov looked exactly the same as he always did—tall, broad, wrapped in a dark coat that seemed to swallow the winter around him. His presence alone made the air feel colder.
His sharp eyes dropped immediately to the dead bird.
Then to the rock.
Then to Ilya’s blood-splattered face.
For just a second, something flickered across his expression.
Surprise.
But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold, unreadable stoicism the boys knew so well.
Grigori nodded once.
“Good, Ilyusha,” he said calmly.
His voice carried approval, but no warmth.
“Very good.”
Alexei glanced at his little brother, unsettled.
Ilya wiped his cheek with the back of his mitten, leaving a faint smear of red across the wool.
Neither boy spoke as their father turned and began walking again.
“Come,” Grigori said.
They followed him deeper into the forest.
Soon the trees opened into a clearing.
The training grounds.
Several men were already there—soldiers, guards, men who had been part of the boys’ lives for as long as they could remember. Some leaned against trucks smoking cigarettes, others stood with their arms folded watching the clearing.
These were the men who worked for their father.
The men who obeyed him.
The moment Grigori stepped into the clearing, the men straightened slightly.
He didn’t greet them.
Instead, he gestured toward the center of the clearing.
“Today,” he said evenly, “you learn survival.”
Alexei stiffened.
One of the soldiers stepped forward and grabbed his wrists before he could react.
“What—hey!”
Plastic zip ties snapped tight around his wrists.
“Father—!”
“Quiet,” Grigori said without raising his voice.
Alexei’s breathing quickened as the men forced him down into a metal chair.
“What if enemies take you?” Grigori continued calmly. “What if they kidnap you to control me?”
Alexei’s chest rose and fell rapidly.
“You must escape.”
The soldiers stepped away.
Alexei tugged at the zip ties immediately, panic creeping into his voice.
“They’re too tight!”
He pulled harder.
The plastic cut into his skin.
“I can’t—”
“Think,” Grigori said coldly.
Alexei tried again, twisting his wrists until the zip ties bit deeper.
Tears burned in his eyes.
“They won’t break!”
Grigori watched him silently.
One of the older soldiers muttered under his breath, almost sympathetically, “Too soft.”
Alexei’s face twisted in frustration.
He pulled again.
Nothing.
His breathing turned ragged.
“I can’t do it!” he choked.
Grigori’s voice cut through the clearing.
“Then you die.”
Alexei froze.
The words hung in the cold air.
Slowly, Alexei looked down at his hands.
Then at his thumbs.
Realization crept over his face.
“No…”
His voice cracked.
He knew what he had to do.
Alexei squeezed his eyes shut, trying to work up the courage to break his own thumbs against the metal chair.
But before he could—
Ilya stepped forward.
“I want to try.”
Several soldiers chuckled quietly.
“Little one wants a turn,” one said.
Grigori studied his youngest son for a moment.
Then he nodded.
“Untie him.”
The men cut Alexei free and secured the zip ties around Ilya’s smaller wrists.
Alexei watched nervously.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
But Ilya barely seemed to notice.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the plastic restraint like it was a puzzle.
Then he looked around the clearing.
His eyes landed on the metal chair Alexei had been sitting in.
“Can I sit?” Ilya asked.
One soldier laughed.
“Go ahead, malysh.”
Ilya climbed onto the chair and twisted his wrists behind the metal frame.
He moved slowly.
Testing.
Thinking.
Then he hooked the zip tie against a rough edge of the metal and began rubbing it back and forth with careful pressure.
The plastic strained.
One of the soldiers leaned forward slightly.
Another muttered, surprised.
“Well I’ll be—”
The zip tie snapped.
Ilya pulled his hands free.
Just like that.
The clearing went quiet.
Grigori watched his youngest son closely.
“Why break bones,” Ilya said simply, “when there are tools?”
He rubbed his wrists absentmindedly.
Like it had been nothing.
Several soldiers exchanged glances.
One of them smirked.
“Smart little wolf.”
But Grigori said nothing.
He only looked at Ilya with a long, unreadable stare.
Like he was seeing something very important for the first time.
After that night, everything changed.
Ilya woke before the sun every morning.
At first the house staff thought it was a phase—some strange burst of determination from a child who wanted to impress his father. But the routine never stopped. Every morning Ilya dressed himself in dark clothes that looked far too serious for a boy his age. Sometimes he even tried to comb his hair the way Grigori did, slicked neatly back from his face.
Alexei noticed it immediately.
“You don’t have to do that,” he muttered one morning while pulling on his own boots.
Ilya glanced at him from the mirror.
“Yes I do.”
Alexei hesitated. “Papa might forget the deal eventually.”
Ilya shook his head.
“Papa does not forget deals.”
The words were said so calmly that Alexei didn’t know what to say back.
Soon the guards were training them both every day.
Hand-to-hand combat drills in the cold morning air.
Knife training.
Gun practice once they were old enough to hold the weapons properly.
Evenings were spent sitting silently beside their father while he conducted business. Sometimes it was negotiations. Sometimes it was intimidation. Sometimes it was meetings that made Alexei feel sick to his stomach.
Ilya always listened.
Always watched.
Always asked questions later.
Grigori never praised him openly, but he began to include Ilya more and more.
Alexei stayed beside his brother through all of it.
Neither of them talked about that night again.
But slowly, day by day, something inside both of them dimmed.
The boys who used to run through the estate laughing were gone.
And their mother…
Irina stopped leaving her bedroom.
At first she simply slept late.
Then she began drinking.
Soon the maids whispered that she barely touched her food anymore.
Sometimes entire trays would come back untouched.
Except on the days Ilya brought them.
The servants learned quickly that if anyone could get Irina to eat, it was him.
So one evening Ilya climbed the stairs with a tray balanced carefully in his arms.
Alexei followed behind him quietly.
“You don’t have to go every time,” Alexei said softly.
“Yes I do,” Ilya replied without turning around.
He knocked gently on the bedroom door.
“Mama?”
No answer.
He pushed the door open slowly.
The room smelled faintly of perfume and alcohol.
Irina sat in the bed, pale and distant, staring blankly toward the window where snow drifted outside.
“Mama,” Ilya said gently.
Her eyes slowly focused on him.
“Oh… Ilyusha.”
Her voice sounded thin, like it had been scraped hollow.
He carried the tray to the bed and sat beside her.
“I brought soup,” he said. “And bread.”
Irina shook her head weakly.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat.”
She looked at him with tired eyes.
“I cannot.”
Ilya picked up the spoon anyway.
“You used to say the same thing to me when I was sick.”
Irina’s lips trembled.
“That was different.”
But he held the spoon up patiently.
“Please, Mama.”
After a long moment she opened her mouth and let him feed her.
One small bite.
Then another.
Alexei leaned quietly against the doorway watching them.
Sometimes Ilya would talk softly while he fed her.
Sometimes he sang.
Songs she used to sing to them when they were little.
Russian lullabies that filled the room with a soft, aching sadness.
Irina would cry silently while he sang, but she always ate a little more when he did.
It became their routine.
Months passed.
One afternoon Grigori brought the boys to a meeting in a private warehouse outside the city.
Representatives from the Triad were waiting.
The air smelled like cigarettes and gun oil.
Alexei sat stiffly beside their father, trying not to look at the crates stacked around the room.
Weapons.
He knew that much.
Grigori spoke calmly with the men across the table.
Numbers.
Routes.
Prices.
Ilya listened closely.
His sharp eyes moved from speaker to speaker, absorbing every detail.
When the meeting ended, Grigori stood.
“You are learning,” he said simply as they walked out.
Neither boy responded.
When they returned home that evening, the estate was strangely quiet.
Too quiet.
Ilya grabbed a tray from the kitchen before going upstairs.
“I’ll take Mama her dinner,” he told the staff.
The maid nodded gratefully.
Alexei followed him again, just like always.
They walked down the long hallway together.
The door to Irina’s room was closed.
Ilya knocked softly.
“Mama?”
No answer.
He frowned.
“Mama?” he called again.
Still nothing.
Alexei shifted uneasily behind him.
“Maybe she’s sleeping.”
“Maybe.”
But Ilya pushed the door open anyway.
The tray slipped from his hands instantly.
Plates shattered across the floor.
Soup splashed against the carpet.
For a second Alexei didn’t understand why.
Then he looked up.
And saw.
Irina hung from the chandelier rope tied around her neck.
Her pale dress swayed slightly in the air.
Her dark hair fell over her face.
The room spun.
“Ilya—”
But the scream had already ripped out of him.
“MAMA!”
Ilya collapsed to his knees beneath her, sobbing.
Alexei stood frozen in the doorway, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Somewhere deep in the house, footsteps began to run toward them.
But by the time anyone arrived…
Everything had already shattered.