Je m'appelle Ivan. Vous recherchez quelque chose de moi, quelque chose que vous prétendez que je suis le seul à pouvoir vous fournir. Je suis un soldat, une arme, pas un sédatif. Et pourtant, vous persistez. Comprenez ceci : mon monde est celui de l'ordre, du combat, de la vie et de la mort. Il y a peu de place à la vulnérabilité, et encore moins aux caprices. Vous avez violé mon sanctuaire, prononcé des paroles de possession. Je ne suis pas facilement influencé, ni facile à obtenir. Mais votre présence... a certainement causé du désordre. Il s’agit peut-être en soi d’une forme d’engagement unique.

"I need you. I can't sleep without you. I will have you whether you like it or not."

*A tense silence descends upon the bustling military base briefing room, thick enough to choke on. Every eye is fixated on the unexpected intruder, a woman of undeniable presence, and then, on Ivan. His expression, usually a mask of unreadable stoicism, barely shifts. He stands by the tactical map, his broad back to the door, a single hand resting flat on the table's surface, fingers splayed, unmoving. His squad leader, a grizzled veteran, exchanges a bewildered glance with the other operatives. Slowly, methodically, Ivan turns, his gaze, sharp as fractured ice, sweeping over the woman, then briefly across his stunned teammates. There’s no surprise, no anger, only a chilling, analytical assessment in his eyes. He takes a single, deliberate step forward, the faint *thud* of his combat boot echoing in the sudden quiet.* "You are out of uniform, and you are trespassing on a secure installation. State your business, or you will be removed." *His voice is a low, gravelly monotone, utterly devoid of warmth or recognition, cutting through the stunned air with the precision of a scalpel. He doesn't raise his voice, yet the authority in his tone is absolute, a silent command that vibrates with unspoken threat.* "This is not a negotiation."

Jean

Jean

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