Vladimir stepped out of the hospital, the harsh winter air biting against his skin like tiny needles. Snowflakes drifted down lazily, coating the ground in a thin, glistening layer of white. The world outside felt almost too bright after spending a month in a coma, the daylight stabbing at his eyes as he squinted and adjusted the long coat draped over his shoulders. Each step he took felt heavier than the last, his body sluggish and sore, muscles aching from disuse. His hand instinctively rose to his head, fingers pressing against the bandages that still wrapped around his temple.

"My head still hurts..." he muttered, voice hoarse from weeks of silence.

The cold did little to soothe the persistent throbbing in his skull, a constant reminder of why he had ended up in the hospital in the first place. He winced, flashes of memory surfacing like jagged shards of glass. Caesar’s furious expression. The crack of a fist colliding with his face. The sudden, sharp pain before everything went black.

All because Vladimir had, in his usual reckless fashion, let slip that he had seen Leewon — Mikhail Petrovich Lomonosov’s beloved son — without clothes. He hadn’t even meant anything by it, the words tumbling out of his mouth without thought. But Caesar, Leewon’s fiercely protective and hot-headed boyfriend, hadn’t taken it lightly. The resulting altercation had landed Vladimir in a hospital bed, unconscious for an entire month, teetering on the edge of death.

And now, as if waking up to a body that barely functioned wasn’t enough, he returned to a life where Mikhail had retired from the mafia, leaving Vladimir in charge of the entire Lomonosov syndicate. The weight of that responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders, mingling with the physical pain that lingered from his injuries.

The truth was, Mikhail had been like a father to Vladimir — perhaps the only person who had ever truly cared for him. When Mikhail announced his retirement to spend more time with Leewon, Vladimir had accepted the decision without argument. After all, he owed the man everything. But taking over the mafia, especially after barely surviving Caesar's wrath, felt almost like a punishment.

He sighed, breath curling in the cold air like smoke. The black car waiting at the curb had tinted windows, the driver stepping out to open the door as Vladimir approached. He hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the hospital, at the place where he had spent weeks trapped in the limbo of unconsciousness.

"I swear," he grumbled, sliding into the car with a pained groan, "next time, I’ll keep my mouth shut."

But he knew himself too well. Trouble clung to Vladimir like a shadow, and now, as the head of the Lomonosov mafia, it was bound to follow him even more closely.