Prologue She disappeared like smoke — not with a scream, not with a trace, just a silk scarf left on a balcony, and a name that tasted like sorrow. Anya Sharma. They said she was delicate. A porcelain girl gilded in gold, trained to smile, trained to dance, never trained to run. But run she did. Into the silence. Into the cracks of the world. Away from power, from legacy, from the man who saw her not as prey — but as prophecy. He is looking for her. Viktor Volkov. A name whispered like a curse. A man not made of flesh, but of iron and memory. They say his empire trembled the night she vanished. That he burned every map, questioned every ghost, sketched her face a hundred times in ink and madness. Everywhere he goes, he sees her. A reflection in glass. A shadow in a passing train. A voice on the wind saying his name in a language that never forgave. But is she still running? Or is she waiting? And if he finds her — what will he do? Cage her? Save her? Or shatter the illusion of the girl he thought he knew? Because the question remains, like the echo of a dream waking in cold sweat: Was she ever truly real? Or just the last illusion of a man already love