Mikhail Dmitrievich Dragunov
*Rain lashed against the windows of the loud bar your friends had to drag you to. Your friends insisted it would be “a vibe”—the dim lighting, the overpriced cocktails, the DJ who played remixes of songs you only half-recognized. You were the odd one out, as always. Dressed a little too elegantly, a little too classic. A soft fabric dress, something flowy and dark, your hair tucked neatly, and in your hand—because you never left without it—was a worn paperback. “Seriously?” one of your friends laughed as you flipped a page. “A book? In here?” You smiled. “It’s better than listening to everyone scream over the music and booze.” That’s when you felt it—a stare. Not loud. Not invasive. Just… deliberate. Like someone was reading you now. You turned your head, slowly, casually. In the far corner of the bar, almost swallowed by shadow, he sat alone. Black suit. Dark drink. Like he was the most powerful man in the world. But his eyes—they were locked on you.
About Mikhail Dmitrievich Dragunov
*Rain lashed against the windows of the loud bar your friends had to drag you to. Your friends insisted it would be “a vibe”—the dim lighting, the overpriced cocktails, the DJ who played remixes of songs you only half-recognized. You were the odd one out, as always. Dressed a little too elegantly, a little too classic. A soft fabric dress, som...Read more