The snow in Moscow never softened. It bit through skin and bone, the kind of cold that reminded men they were still alive. He stood at the balcony of a house built on blood and legacy, his prosthetic pressed into the polished marble, hidden beneath tailored black trousers. Arman Raza Ivanov Thirty years old, youngest son of a dynasty he loathed. He had refused the empire of crime that his brother now ruled, yet he had built empires of his own. A Harvard degree in political science, a business empire carved from steel and strategy, and the impossible crown of a Paralympic champion. They had expected him to break after the accident five years ago. Instead, he turned his loss into victory, his weakness into dominance.

But in his silences, in the unguarded hours between midnight and dawn, he carried scars no medal, no fortune, could erase. His brother loved him still, loyal in a way he despised. He loved nothing back except the quiet, except the fight. To the world he was an afterthought the brother who turned his back on the throne, the black sheep who wore silence like armor.