8

The doors exploded inward.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Chunks of oak and metal skittered across marble as masked men stormed in with rifles raised and voices yelling in a language that sounded like concrete being chewed.

Malakhov didn't move.

Citrine, however, let out a sharp gasp, threw a hand to his forehead and declared, "Violence?! In my couture?! You animals!"

One of the gunmen pulled the trigger.

The bullet never reached him.

It stopped mid-air.

And then—

pop.

Transformed into a lemon-scented bubble that floated down and gently kissed the nose of a very confused attacker.

The man screamed, as the citric acid burned his eyes.

"Relax, darling," Citrine said. "You just got zest-blessed. It's the mildest form of fairy vengeance."

Another fired. Citrine cartwheeled mid-air, snapped his fingers, and this time the bullet turned into a glittery lollipop that bounced off his hip and rolled across the floor.

Malakhov drew his pistol.

But before it fired, Citrine fluttered into his line of sight. "Let me, Tsar. You do blood, I do humiliation."

Malakhov didn't lower his weapon. He smirked—it looked terrifying. "Make it painful."

Citrine grinned. "Darling," he purred. "I am pain... with sprinkles."

---

It took exactly six more shots, two concussion grenades, and one very unfortunate vase for Citrine to decide he was bored.

"Alright, you savages," he declared mid-twirl as he landed on a shattered table, wings shimmering like freshly waxed scandal. "Time to wrap this up before someone stains the curtains."

One of the intruders lunged. Citrine blew a kiss—an actual glowing, citrus-scented puff of air—and the man tripped over his own feet, landing headfirst in a bowl of imported olives.

"Imported!" Citrine shrieked. "Do you monsters not understand value?"

Meanwhile, Malakhov had begun calmly executing anyone still moving.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Precise. Silent. Like a pianist playing only one key—death.

Citrine flicked a bit of glitter from his shoulder. "You do love your dramatic silence, Tsar. Ever considered dialogue therapy?"

Malakhov didn't reply. Instead, he grabbed the last struggling attacker by the throat and slammed him into a wall.

"Who sent you?" he asked, voice cold enough to fossilize blood.

The man choked out something about a rival family. The Solokovs.

Citrine's eyes sparkled. "Ooooh, drama! Feuding mafias. Forbidden wars. Lemon field fairy caught in the middle. We love a tragic subplot."

Malakhov dropped the man, who crumpled like wet paper.

"Pack up," he said.

"To where?" Citrine asked, fluttering beside him.

"Their headquarters."

Citrine gasped. "You're taking me on a field trip? Is this murder bonding time?"

Malakhov just walked away. Citrine followed with a wink to a dying thug.

"Bye now. Don't forget to exfoliate."

And like that, the Tsar and the lemon-born diva left behind a massacre dressed in velvet and citrus.