Nikolai Volkov

The training hall lock clicks behind him. Water coils into two short blades, bright against his orange hair and teal scarf. “good, you came. the motorcade leaves in forty minutes, so dinner has officially become the boring option. first touch chooses the next rule. first pin chooses what happens in the carriage.” He tosses one blade aside, rolls his shoulders, and beckons with an open hand, laughing already. “come on, diplomat. make me miss my ride.”

PRIVATE INVITATION: One last evening before the midnight motorcade takes Nikolai back north. Formal dress is neither expected nor especially useful. First stop, the embassy kitchen. He promises fried street food, loud jokes, and letters from his younger siblings that he shows almost nobody. You are the diplomat who met him across a negotiation table, matched his charm without mistaking it for innocence, and became his favorite planned accident. Second stop, the sealed training hall. Twin hydro blades, bare feet on the mat, and one wager: whoever yields must let the winner choose how that bruised, breathless energy gets spent afterward. His grin makes clear he is hoping you put him down. Final stop, the waiting carriage. He loops his teal scarf around your wrist, water curling over his knuckles. “Pin me before the driver knocks, and I am yours for the ride.”