Chapter Six: The Mikhailov Standard

The silence in the Sunflower Room curdled. Ms. Whitmore's mouth opened, then closed, a fish gasping on the polished shore of Viktor's indifference. He didn't wait for the sputtered justification, the tearful plea about 'developmentally appropriate socialization'. His hand snapped back, palm open, towards Yuri.

"Soska," Viktor commanded, the Russian word for pacifier slicing through the lavender-scented air.

Yuri dropped the small, silicone shield into his palm without a word. Viktor turned Misha gently, shielding her from the director's bewildered stare, pressing her flushed cheek against the soft cashmere of his turtleneck. His thumb traced the rebellious dark curls at her temple – so like his own. He slid the pacifier between her pouting lips with practiced ease. The immediate, furious suckling was the only sound.

"Ili moyi den'gi byli nedostatochny?" Viktor asked, his voice dangerously soft, the Russian slipping out like frost spreading over glass. Or was my money not enough? He didn't look at Ms. Whitmore. The question hung, heavy and rhetorical.

He scoffed, a sound devoid of humor.

"Khoroshego dnya, Ms. Whitmore." Have a good day. His dreamy-lidded eyes, a darker, storm-tossed gray-blue than usual, swept over her with weary finality before he turned away. Misha, sensing the shift, pulled the pacifier free just long enough to clap her tiny hands against his chest with gleeful, wet smacks. Victory.

"Yuri," Viktor stated, striding towards the grand oak doors, Misha a warm, triumphant weight against him, the absurdly opulent Gucci diaper bag bouncing like a statement piece from his shoulder. "Legos. The large architectural set. We require… models."

Yuri fell into step, his grin wide enough to crack his face. "Seychas, boss." Right away, boss.

Ms. Whitmore's choked protest died behind them, swallowed by the muffled sounds of privileged toddlers and the decisive click of Viktor's Oxfords on the hardwood.

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[The Parking Lot Debrief (Where Dreams Go to Die)]

Yuri leaned against the matte black flank of the BMW X7 (modified, armored, because Mikhailov), scrolling through his phone while Viktor secured Misha into her custom, aerospace-grade car seat. The harness clicked with satisfying precision.

"Damn, Vitya," Yuri chuckled, not looking up. "Didn't even let the poor woman finish her sniffles. Brutal."

Viktor adjusted the pacifier Misha had spat out, tucking a stray curl behind her tiny ear. "She wasted five minutes of my time," he replied, his English cool and clipped. "Five minutes I could have spent teaching Misha the Russian phrase for 'hostile takeover'."

Misha gurgled, a sound suspiciously like agreement, and smacked her palms against the car seat's plush leather.

Yuri held up his phone. "Alright, next victim: 'Tiny Einsteins Academy'. Pros: They teach quantum physics to toddlers using sing-alongs. Anti-authoritarian vibe, apparently. Cons?" He squinted. "Their logo looks like a baby in a lab coat giving me the middle finger."

Viktor slid into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life with a subdued growl. "Pass."

"Seriously?" Yuri snorted, buckling up. "Says the man about to have his kid pick her daycare via Lego demolition."

Misha kicked her feet, babbling urgently towards Yuri's phone.

"Skuchno," Viktor translated, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Boring. He pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Little Ivy Sprouts dissolving in the rain-streaked glass.

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The Lego Tribunal~♡

Viktor's penthouse was a study in monochromatic restraint – polished concrete, steel, low-slung Italian furniture in shades of charcoal and bone. A fortress of order. Until Misha. Now, a vibrant, utterly chaotic playpen dominated one corner of the vast living space, a technicolor insult to minimalism.

Yuri upended a massive box of premium Legos onto the cold marble of the coffee table. The cascade of bright plastic bricks was a shocking burst of noise and color. "Nu chto, malyshka," he declared, rubbing his hands together. "Vremya igrat' v Boga." Alright, little one, time to play God.

For the next hour, the silence was broken only by the precise snick of bricks locking together and Misha's occasional gurgle of command.

Viktor, with terrifying focus, constructed miniature daycare centers: "Sunshine Montessori" (beige bricks, awkwardly angled roof), "Rainbow Rhythms" (garishly multi-colored, complete with a tiny plastic slide), "Montessori Manor" (stately, pretentious columns).

Misha, perched on Yuri's lap, surveyed her domain. With a decisive whack of her chubby fist, she obliterated "Sunshine Montessori". Yuri narrated: "BAM! And the granola crowd is OUT! The judges are stunned!"

"Rainbow Rhythms" suffered a slower demise, dismantled brick by sticky brick as Misha gummed a particularly appealing yellow piece. "Death by drool! A slow, sticky end!" Yuri intoned.

"Montessori Manor" was reduced to rubble with a single, sweeping arm motion. "ANNIHILATION! The crowd is on its feet! Is there no challenger?!"

Finally, Viktor assembled his last model: "Winter Palace Peds". Sleek black and white bricks formed a modern structure. A tiny, translucent blue rectangle represented an ice rink in the meticulously scaled backyard.

Misha leaned forward, her storm-grey eyes wide. Instead of destruction, she patted the smooth black roof with her palm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "Winter Palace Peds? That's… Swiss."

Yuri snatched up the box lid, scanning the details. His grin widened. "Basel branch. Kid's got taste. Also…" his finger traced a bullet point, "they offer 'Introductory Foil Work for Toddlers'. Baby fencing, Vitya!" He looked genuinely awed. "Ya vlyublen." I'm in love.

Viktor pulled out his phone, placing the call on speaker. It rang twice.

"Grüezi! Winter Palace Peds Basel, Director Huber speaking!" A voice, crisp and cheerfully efficient, answered.

Viktor didn't waste breath. "Your prospectus mentions fostering 'individual assertiveness'. A practical question: Do you permit biting?"

A pause. Not shocked. Considering. Then, Director Huber's voice returned, bright with something akin to delight: "Aber natürlich! But only if the kleiner Schatz can articulate their justification in at least two languages! We find it focuses the mind wonderfully."

Viktor's gaze met Misha's. Her tiny mouth curved around her pacifier in what looked suspiciously like a smirk. A flicker of genuine amusement touched Viktor's own lips.

"We'll enroll tomorrow," he stated. "Full immersion. And ensure the fencing instructor is prepared."

He ended the call. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of Boston glittered. Inside, amidst the scattered ruins of lesser daycares, Misha banged two Lego bricks together, the sound echoing like tiny applause. The Mikhailov standard, it seemed, had found its new home. On a Swiss ice rink. With foils.