codename: Seraphim

Get a grip, Beom, he told himself as he reached his room and slammed the door behind him. The man's an idiot. A smug, frustrating idiot. That's all there is to it.

And yet, as he collapsed onto the bed, his heart still racing, he couldn't quite convince himself that was the whole truth.

The wind outside howled as the helicopter blades whirred louder, carrying the doctor back to Moscow. Yaroslav stood outside for a moment, the cold biting through his coat. The frost-laden air made his breath visible, curling around him like smoke. His sharp eyes followed the helicopter's ascent, narrowing slightly against the icy gusts. His posture was rigid, hands stuffed into his pockets, but even the brutal cold didn't seem to faze him much.

"Damn, it's freezing," he muttered under his breath as he turned and headed back inside, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground.

The house greeted him with its usual quiet warmth, though the tension hanging in the air from earlier hadn't fully dissipated. He shut the door behind him, shutting out the bitter cold. As Yaroslav hung his coat on the rack, he caught sight of movement from the staircase. His eyes immediately locked onto Beom, who was descending the stairs with a cautious look on his face.

Beom looked more composed than he felt, his hand gripping the banister as he tried to gauge Yaroslav's mood. After everything that had happened recently, he wasn't sure how to approach the man. His heart was racing, but he kept his expression as neutral as possible. He needed to ask something important, and Yaroslav's mood would determine how this went.

"Yaroslav," Beom began, his voice firm but measured as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He hesitated for only a moment before continuing, "Can I make a call to my mom? She might be worried about me."

There was a brief pause as Yaroslav stopped mid-step on his way to the kitchen. He glanced back at Beom over his shoulder, his sharp eyes scrutinizing him with an unreadable expression. For a moment, it seemed like Yaroslav might actually consider the request.

But then, as if the idea was too absurd to entertain for long, Yaroslav turned back around and resumed walking. "No," he said simply, his tone flat and final, as though the matter required no further discussion.

The dismissal hit Beom like a brick wall. His jaw tightened, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "No?" he repeated, incredulous. "What do you mean, 'no'? She's my mom, Yaroslav. She's probably worried sick about me!"

Yaroslav didn't stop. He walked into the kitchen with the same unhurried grace, opening the refrigerator as though Beom's words had barely registered. He began gathering ingredients for breakfast—eggs, milk, and bread—placing them on the counter with methodical precision.

"You don't need to call her," Yaroslav said casually, cracking an egg into a bowl with practiced ease. "She's fine."

Beom's eyes narrowed. "How would you even know that? You don't know my mom. You don't know how she worries."

Yaroslav shrugged, whisking the eggs with a calmness that only seemed to fan the flames of Beom's irritation. "Mothers always worry. It's in their nature. But she'll be fine as long as she doesn't hear from you for a while. Safer that way."

"Safer?" Beom took a step closer to the kitchen, his fists clenching at his sides. "What does that even mean? You're keeping me here against my will, and now you're stopping me from talking to my own family? Do you even hear how insane that sounds?"

Yaroslav paused, turning his head slightly toward Beom. His face remained impassive, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or maybe just mild amusement. "It's not insane. It's practical," he said, his voice calm but with an edge that warned Beom not to push too far. "You calling her creates risks. For you. For her. For me."

Beom stared at him, disbelief written all over his face. He could feel his anger rising, a sharp heat spreading through his chest. "Risks? What risks? You're just making excuses! This isn't about keeping me safe. It's about control, isn't it? You just want to keep me under your thumb."

Yaroslav finally turned to face him fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The smirk tugging at his lips was subtle but infuriating. "You're overthinking this, Beom," he said smoothly. "Eat something. You'll feel better."

Beom's eyes narrowed, his frustration boiling over. "I don't need to eat. I need to talk to my mom!"

Yaroslav sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though Beom's outburst was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "You're alive. You're safe. That's what matters. Your mother will understand when the time comes."

Beom's fists tightened at his sides, his breathing shallow as he tried to hold back the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. How does he always manage to twist everything? Beom thought bitterly. How does he make himself sound so reasonable when he's being completely unreasonable?

"You're unbelievable," Beom muttered, his voice low but filled with venom. "You don't get to decide what's best for my family."

"Actually," Yaroslav said, his smirk widening ever so slightly, "I do. For now."

Beom clenched his jaw, swallowing the angry retort on the tip of his tongue. He knew he wouldn't win this argument—not now, not with Yaroslav. The man was like a steel wall, impossible to crack. But that didn't mean Beom was going to stop fighting.

"Fine," Beom said through gritted teeth, turning on his heel and heading toward the living room. "But don't think for a second that I'm okay with this."

As he walked away, Yaroslav's calm voice followed him. "Noted."

Beom flopped onto the couch, his heart still pounding with frustration. He grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tightly, trying to calm himself down. But the knot of anger and helplessness in his chest refused to loosen.

I need to find a way out of this, Beom thought, his mind racing. I can't let him keep controlling everything. I won't.

The aroma of freshly cooked eggs and toast wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of coffee as Beom sat slumped on the couch, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His stomach growled softly, betraying him, but his pride refused to move at Yaroslav's first call.

"Breakfast is ready. Come and eat, Beom," Yaroslav's voice echoed from the dining room. It was calm, firm, and unbothered as usual. He didn't sound like a man who had just had a heated argument minutes ago; instead, he sounded almost annoyingly serene, as if everything was perfectly in order.

Beom glared toward the direction of the dining hall, refusing to give Yaroslav the satisfaction of an immediate response. I'll go when I'm good and ready, Beom thought stubbornly, gripping the pillow tighter. He sat for a few more minutes, letting the silence between them stretch out, until the gnawing hunger in his stomach became unbearable. Reluctantly, he stood, brushing down his shirt, and made his way toward the dining room.

When Beom entered, Yaroslav was already seated, his posture relaxed yet poised, like someone who had all the time and power in the world. His sharp eyes glanced up briefly as Beom walked in, but he said nothing, returning his attention to the coffee cup he was casually swirling in one hand.

Beom hesitated for a moment before taking the seat across from him. The dining hall was spacious and elegant, its high ceilings and large windows letting in streams of pale morning light. The air inside was far warmer than outside, but it felt no less oppressive. The quiet between them was deafening, filled only with the faint clink of utensils as Yaroslav took a bite of his toast.

Beom picked up his fork, poking at the scrambled eggs on his plate. His appetite had suddenly diminished, though his stomach protested otherwise. He hated the tension, the power dynamics, the way Yaroslav controlled everything without even trying. The silence felt suffocating, like a wall pressing down on him, and he needed to break it before it drove him crazy.

"Would you be going out today?" Beom asked finally, his voice soft but steady. He didn't look up from his plate, instead focusing on cutting a piece of toast as if it were the most important task in the world.

Yaroslav paused mid-sip, his piercing eyes narrowing slightly as he set the cup down. He looked at Beom with an expression that bordered on skepticism, as though trying to gauge his intentions behind the question.

"No," he answered simply, the word carrying an air of finality.

Beom glanced up briefly, his brows knitting together in mild disappointment. "Oh… okay," he replied, his voice trailing off. He couldn't tell if he was relieved or more frustrated by the answer. Relieved, perhaps, that he wouldn't have to be alone in the strange, unfamiliar house. Frustrated because it meant Yaroslav would continue to loom over him all day like a shadow.

The silence threatened to return, thick and heavy, but Beom wasn't ready to let it swallow them again. His fingers tapped nervously on the edge of his plate as he searched for something else to say, something that wouldn't make Yaroslav clamp down further.

"You still haven't told me where we are," Beom said finally, his tone casual but laced with curiosity. He glanced up, meeting Yaroslav's gaze head-on this time. "Because I definitely know we aren't in Moscow, right?"

Yaroslav didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest as he studied Beom intently. His gaze was sharp, like a predator sizing up its prey, and Beom felt a chill run down his spine despite the warmth of the room.

"What makes you think we're not in Moscow?" Yaroslav asked, his voice smooth, almost teasing.

Beom frowned, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Is he really going to play this game? he thought, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. "The air feels different," Beom said bluntly, motioning toward the window. "The landscape, the quiet... this isn't a city. And if it is, it's nothing like Moscow."

Yaroslav's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk, but he didn't confirm or deny Beom's observations. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as though waiting for Beom to continue piecing things together on his own.

Beom sighed, his frustration growing. "Look, I'm not trying to escape or anything," he said, though the thought had crossed his mind more times than he cared to admit. "I just… I think I deserve to know where I am, at the very least. Don't you think that's fair?"

Yaroslav's smirk faded, replaced by an expression that was harder to read—neutral, guarded. "Fair," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "Life isn't always fair, Beom."

Beom's jaw tightened, his grip on the fork growing firmer. There he goes again, he thought bitterly. Dodging questions, acting like he's some philosopher dispensing wisdom instead of the man holding me here against my will.

"Why won't you just tell me?" Beom pressed, his voice rising slightly despite his best efforts to stay calm. "What's the point of keeping it a secret?"

Yaroslav's gaze darkened, and for a moment, Beom wondered if he'd pushed too far. But then Yaroslav leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he spoke in a low, measured tone.

"Because knowing won't change anything," Yaroslav said. "You're here, with me. That's all that matters."