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The intrusive thought catches me off-guard. Anastasia Markov is a complication, nothing more. The night in Paris—a tactical error I've avoided repeating. Yet her ghost lingers, appearing in unguarded moments between operations, between calculated moves toward vengeance.

"Viktor?" Markov's voice sharpens, bringing me back to the present. "Did you hear me?"

"Apologies, pakhan. Signal interference." Another smooth lie. "We'll proceed to Lubyanka immediately."

After disconnecting, I check the time—5:17 AM. Anton will be at our secured meeting point, waiting for my report. As my handler and the only person who knows my true identity, these debriefings are essential to maintaining perspective, to remembering why I've buried myself in this world of brutality.

Lately, though, our conversations have grown increasingly tense. Anton sees things I try to conceal—doubts about the mission, conflicted loyalty, thoughts of Anastasia that I can't seem to excise.

Anton's expression is thunderous when I enter the abandoned metro maintenance tunnel we use for secure meetings. His lean frame paces the narrow space, tension radiating from every movement.

"Successful operation?" he asks without preamble.

"Textbook," I confirm, accepting the secure tablet he extends. "Petrov acquired, minimal casualties on our side. Markov is pleased."

"How wonderful for you." The sarcasm is new, an edge that's developed over recent months. "I'm sure your father would be delighted to know his son executes flawless operations for the man who ordered his execution."

The statement hits like a physical blow, momentarily stealing my breath. "That's unnecessary."

"Is it?" Anton stops pacing, confronting me directly. "Because lately I wonder if you remember why we started this. Five years, Viktor. Five years of planning, of sacrificing everything to get close enough to destroy Markov. And now you're his rising star, his trusted lieutenant."

"That was always the plan," I remind him coldly. "Infiltrate. Gain trust. Dismantle from within."

"Was falling for his daughter part of the plan too?"

My fist connects with the concrete wall before I can stop myself, pain lancing through my knuckles. Anton doesn't flinch, watching with clinical detachment as blood seeps between my fingers.

"I'm not falling for anyone," I manage through clenched teeth.

"Then explain this." He activates the tablet, displaying a series of search queries from my private device. "Seventeen searches for Anastasia Markov in the past month. Accessing her academic records from Geneva. Tracking her movements through diplomatic event photographs."

Shame and anger collide as I realize he's been monitoring my personal devices—a violation of trust wrapped in professional concern.

"Intelligence gathering," I justify weakly. "Knowing her movements helps predict her father's."

"Bullshit." Anton's voice rises for the first time in our eight-year partnership. "This isn't intelligence gathering. This is obsession. And it's compromising everything we've worked for."

"You're overreacting." I move to take the tablet, but Anton pulls it back.

"Am I? Then you won't care about these."

He swipes to a new set of files—surveillance photographs from Geneva. Anastasia at various diplomatic functions, elegant and composed. More images: entering her apartment building, attending lectures at the academy, shopping in upscale boutiques.

"She's distracting you," Anton states flatly. "And distraction gets people killed in our line of work."

I force myself to appear unmoved by the images, though each one sends an unsettling ripple through my carefully maintained composure. Anastasia in Geneva, building a life far from her father's shadow—a life I glimpsed in Paris before duty pulled me back to Moscow.

"My focus remains on the mission," I say finally, the words feeling hollow even as I speak them.

"Does it?" Anton challenges. "Because from where I stand, you're developing dangerous feelings for the daughter of the target. That's not just unprofessional—it's potentially fatal to everything we've built."

My mind flashes to Paris—again.

"It was one night," I respond mechanically. "A tactic to gather intelligence on Markov's family connections."

"Then stop monitoring her," Anton demands. "Stop searching for her information. Focus on the endgame we've spent years working toward."

The rational part of me knows he's right. Anastasia Markov represents a dangerous complication to an already high-risk operation—a weakness Markov would exploit without hesitation if discovered. The irony is not lost on me—my initial thought was to use her to get to him. Not the other way around.