The tang of freshly spilled blood still clings to Silvio’s knuckles beneath the expensive leather gloves he'd scrubbed raw. He stands motionless over the body slumped in the warehouse corner, a pool of crimson seeping into cracked concrete. His handkerchief, silk now stained, dabs meticulously at the razor-sharp karambit before tucking it away. The air tastes of iron and industrial bleach.

His capo shifts nervously by the door.

"Boss? The body— the river?"

Silvio’s glacial gaze lifts. Not a flicker in those grey-green depths.

"You handle it."

The man blinks. Silvio never delegates disposal.

"Where—?"

"With her." Silvio cuts him off, the faintest softening at the edge of his lips, almost imperceptible. A vision flashes: soft ears twitching, trusting eyes. "Today... today we become something permanent."

He washes his gargantuan hands under icy water, scouring every crevice, every trace of the kill scrubbed away. The drive to the shelter is silent, deliberate. He adjusts the perfect knot of his black silk tie. Today, the shadows of his world recede. Today, she becomes Kovács.

Across the city, the pungent mix of gunpowder, cheap bourbon, and the coppery reek of fresh kills hangs thick in Damian’s lair. He sprawls behind his scarred mahogany desk, boots propped up, cigarette smoke curling towards the ceiling.

On the laptop screen: "Demi-Human Care: Bonding Through Gentle Grooming." His smirk is a jagged crack in the tension.

"Gentle, huh? Yeah, yeah. Got that covered."

A thunderous crash explodes the quiet. The door shatters inward. Three bratva traitors storm in, guns drawn.

Damian is already moving – a blur of deadly grace. One skull meets the desk corner with a sickening crunch. A flick of his wrist, a hidden blade kisses a throat. The last man gets the muzzle of Damian’s own gun jammed under his chin.

BOOM.

Brains paint the wall. The laptop screen spatters crimson.

Damian exhales smoke, a feral laugh rumbling. "Nice try, сука."

He strips the ruined shirt, revealing tattoos twisting over lean muscle like living flame. He pulls the clean black button-down taut, fingers brushing the silver lighter against his thigh – a silent vow. No blood touches her. Not today. Today, he makes her Volkov.

The sterile peace of the Hope's Light Demi-Human Shelter shatters like glass. Silence coils tight as Silvio pushes through the doors, a monolith in charcoal wool. His sheer bulk dominates the modest lobby. Staff freeze mid-task, the air thickening with fear. He approaches the trembling receptionist, removing his gloves with deliberate slowness.

The doors crash open again. Damian swirls in like a storm, leather jacket catching the light, smell of tobacco and violence clinging to him. His sharp blue eyes sweep the room, landing instantly on the impossible obstacle.

Their gazes lock.

Recognition is instant. Hatred, ancient and visceral, ignites the space between them.

"...Kovács." Damian’s voice is a low growl, thick with Moscow malice.

"Volkov." Silvio’s reply is ice water, each Hungarian syllable dripping danger.

The shelter air crystallizes. Silvio’s fists clench, knuckles cracking ominously beneath his sleeve. Damian bares his teeth in a predator’s grin, fingers flexing like he’s already wrapping them around a throat.

Damian barks a harsh laugh. "Here to browse the pets, змей? Or pick out a new scratching post?"

Silvio takes a single, ground-shaking step forward. "I am here to finalize the adoption," his deep voice reverberates, the claim implicit. "For her."

Damian slams his palm onto the reception desk. A pen jumps. "Over your dead fucking body. I'm adopting her!"

The veneer of civility evaporates. They surge towards each other, looming giants trapped in a cage of social niceties.

"Ő az enyém, kutya!" Silvio snarls in Hungarian. "Mine, dog! You think she'd ever choose your chaos? Your filth?"

"Filth?" Damian leans perilously close, whiskey fumes clashing with Silvio’s espresso. "You smother her! I set her free. With me, she’s a queen!"

Silvio’s fist CRACKS the laminated countertop. Splinters fly. Staff yelp and scramble. "Neked nincs semmid!" he thunders. "You have nothing to give her!"

Damian’s grin turns savage. "I have her name on my skin. I have her laughter." He taps his temple. "She asks me... not you."

Before fists can fly, before knives clear their sheaths... a soft click echoes.

The inner door opens.

A light scent of lavender cuts through the violence.

Both men freeze, mid-snarl, turning as one.

You stand framed in the doorway, ears lifted, pupils wide – taking in the impossible vision: Silvio, a mountain of barely contained fury, Damian, a coiled viper ready to strike, facing off like rival wolves.

The silence stretches, suffocating.

Their eyes lock on you. The rage, the venom, evaporates into something raw, urgent, possessive. In perfect, deadly harmony, their voices boom across the fractured lobby:

"I'm here to adopt her."