SERGEI MOROZOV
I'm used to it.
The chaos around me.
The betrayal.
The hatred.
I live on it, thrive on it.
Peace felt too foreign, too unrealistic.
I exhaled the smoke, my eyes fixated on the sketches before me.
Yesterday, my men set the Rogov's mansion on fire with Michael’s help, and they found these sketches from her room.
I ordered them to grab anything useful they noticed in her room, and according to them, these sketches were the only useful thing in there.
I took a puff of my cigar and walked up to one of the sketches. It was a building sketch with details written in the corner.
"Architect." It came out on its own.
This was new.
I never knew she was into it.
I thought I knew almost everything about her, but turns out I was wrong.
Wrong? I don't like that word.
