The world seemed to still the moment he entered.
It was as if time itself bowed—sounds dulling, movement slowing, the very air tightening around his presence. Machines hummed softer. Even the walls of the tattoo parlor seemed to hold their breath.
He was tall—imposinglyso, standing at least 6'4—with perfectly wavy blond hair that fell back effortlessly, as though styled by nature itself. His face was sharp and striking, every feature carved with intention, his chiseled jawline catching the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. But it was his eyes that commanded attention—icy blue, piercing, the kind that didn't just look at you but through you, like frost creeping beneath skin.
Who the fuck is this guy? Matteo thought.
He pushed himself off the exposed brick wall, boots scraping faintly against the concrete floor as he straightened. His dark eyes tracked the stranger with a guarded stare, brows lifting just slightly—not impressed, not intimidated, merely assessing. The man reminded him of a Rubik's cube: perfectly arranged on the surface, yet hiding something far more complicated underneath.
The tattoo parlor itself was alive with contrast. the low thrum of rock music playing from old speakers mounted near the ceiling. The scent of antiseptic, ink, and faint cigarette smoke clung stubbornly to every surface. Flash art covered the walls—skulls, saints, serpents, roses—layers of stories etched in color and shadow. Metal trays gleamed beneath harsh lights, needles laid out with surgical precision.
Before Matteo could speak, the gangster beat him to it.
The smug confidence he'd worn moments earlier vanished instantly, replaced by visible panic. Beads of sweat formed along his temple as he stepped forward, bowing low—far too low—for anyone with a shred of pride.
His forced smile trembled as Russian spilled from his mouth in a hurried stutter.
"Ц-царь?! Я-я не знала, что вы придёте сюда встретить меня! Если бы я знала, я была бы лучше подготовлена!"
[ T-Tsar!? I-I didn't realize you were coming here to greet me! If I knew, I would have been more prepared! ]
The man—the Tsar—responded slowly.
A smirk curved his lips as his eyes closed briefly, his expression almost gentle. Almost innocent. But Matteo recognized the type instantly.
A wolf in sheep's clothing.
Matteo's jaw tightened as he looked at the gangster now practically groveling at the man's feet.
I don't understand a single word, he thought, but I know ass-kissing when I see it.
A quiet exhale escaped him—too sharp, too amused to be mistaken for anything else.
The sound was barely there.
But it was enough.
The Tsar turned his head.
His gaze locked onto Matteo with sudden precision, predatory and cold, as if dissecting his existence in a single glance. Despite the polite smile still carved onto his face, something darker stirred beneath it—calculated, dangerous.
Matteo froze for half a second.
Then he straightened.
He met the stare head-on, eyes hardening, his own glare sharpening as he silently challenged the man before him. The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
The Tsar burst into a sharp, barking laugh.
His eyes widened—almost crazed—as they bore into Matteo. He stepped closer, boots echoing softly against the concrete, invading space deliberately. Tilting his head just slightly, he spoke, his voice smooth and rich, wrapped in a thick Russian accent that rolled effortlessly off his tongue.
"Ты тату-мастер? Ты такой милашка. Как тебя зовут, мой огненный зайчик?"
[ Are you the tattoo artist? You look like a cutie. What's your name, my fiery bunny?
Matteo raised a brow slowly. ]
The man's voice was deep and liquid, every word flowing like dark honey. It was playful—almost mocking—but there was an edge beneath it, something serious lurking behind the humor.
"I don't speak Russian," Matteo said flatly. "I'm South Korean."
The man paused.
Then he smiled again—wider this time, clearly amused.
"Oh. My apologies," he said smoothly. "I did not realize."
He studied Matteo for a beat longer before continuing, his tone light but deliberate.
"I asked what your name was."
Another pause.
Then his smirk returned—sharp, dangerous, unmistakably pleased.
"My name," he said, voice dropping just slightly, "is Aleksander Ninkovic… little zaika."