Chapter Seven: Mirrors And Steam

The silence of the penthouse was different now. Not the hollow silence of isolation Viktor had cultivated like a second skin, but a silence filled with the soft, vital sounds of existence: Misha's contented gurgles, the rustle of her tiny body rolling across the inky expanse of the new, impossibly plush rug – a concession to her reign. The sharp angles of the minimalist furniture, the cold gleam of the Carrara marble floors… it all seemed to hold its breath around her, softened at the edges by her sheer, demanding presence. Everything stark, everything his, was now irrevocably theirs.

"Fencing, huh?" Viktor murmured, the words low, almost lost in the high-ceilinged space. He watched her from the depths of the charcoal sofa, a dark silhouette against the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She paused her rolling conquest, lifting her head, those storm-grey eyes – his eyes – fixing on him with unnerving focus. As if assessing her next territory.

He pushed himself upright, a movement fluid as poured ink. "Come," he announced, the command softened by an unfamiliar note. "Bath. Dinner. Sleep."

Misha blinked, her tiny face a study in infantile deliberation. The slight narrowing of her eyes, the purse of her rosebud lips – pure Mikhailov calculation. Then, with a decisive little grunt, she lifted her arms, fingers splayed in imperious demand. Carry me.

Viktor obliged. He crossed the space, bending with the same deliberate care he used when handling a fragile, first-edition Akhmatova. His hands, broad and bearing the faint, pale scars of a past not entirely gilded, slid securely under her soft armpits. He lifted her, holding her aloft for a moment, suspended between the monochrome world below and his searching gaze. He studied her face, not as a father might, but as a cartographer examining a newly discovered, vital landmass – one that charted both his deepest failings and his unexpected redemption.

Her Symmetry: Flawless. Unsettlingly so. A sculptor's dream, echoing the precise angles of his own face.

Her Jawline: Already defined beneath the baby fat, stubborn and strong. A promise of future defiance, a legacy etched in bone.

Her Cheeks: Plush as rose petals, blushed pink, yet carrying the same cool, marble undertones as his own complexion. Where the low light caught her, she looked like a statue dusted with talcum.

Her Eyes:Large, almond-shaped windows, but sharpened to his own gunmetal grey. Complete with the faint, assessing squint that silently declared, I see your flaws.

Misha stared back, unblinking. Utterly fearless. Then—

"Ah-bah! Gah-tuh-mmpf!" A stream of babble, delivered with startling clarity. (Interpretation: "Is there avocado on my chin, or are you just doing that brooding thing again?")

Viktor didn't deign to answer. He simply pulled her close, tucking her warm weight against his chest. Her tiny heartbeat thudded against his ribs, a frantic, living counterpoint to his own measured pulse, as he carried her towards the sweeping glass staircase. Their fractured reflections multiplied in the polished black steps – a shattered mosaic of dark hair, grey eyes, and shared, unyielding lines.

At the top, bathed in the cooler light of the upper floor, Viktor paused. His arms tightened around her, just fractionally, a subconscious anchor. He looked down at the face nestled against his turtleneck.

"Ty ni na chto ne pokhozh na neyo," he murmured, the Russian rough, raw. You look nothing like her.

It was stark truth. Ji-Hyun's delicate, vulpine features – the sharp cheekbones, the sly tilt of the eyes – were absent. Erased. Misha was pure Mikahailov lineage, distilled. The stubborn set of her nascent brows, the unconscious curl of her lip that already seemed to sneer at perceived weakness – all Dmitri, all Anastasia, all him.

Misha tilted her head back, peering up. "Bah?" A soft inquiry.

Viktor exhaled, a slow release of tension he hadn't named. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, breathing in the clean, milky scent of her baby-soft curls. "Khorosho." Good.

---

The ensuite bathroom was a sanctuary of steam and veined ivory marble. Viktor knelt by the deep soaking tub, the water a perfect, shimmering turquoise. He tested it not with fingers, but with the sensitive skin of his inner elbow – a habit picked up from a late-night, anonymous parenting forum he would deny to his dying breath.

Misha, however, surveyed the watery arena with the strategic eye of a general about to breach the walls. The moment her toes brushed the warm surface, she let loose a squeal of pure, predatory delight and kicked. Not a tentative splash, but a full-force, double-legged stomp that sent a miniature tidal wave crashing over the rim, soaking Viktor's knees and the front of his black trousers.

"Tak," Viktor observed, wiping a droplet from his cheekbone. "Znachit, segodnya vosproizvodim Tsusimskoye srazheniye." Ah. So tonight, we recreate the Battle of Tsushima. He reached for her washcloth.

Misha responded by slapping the water with both palms, a perfectly executed double-splash that hit Viktor square in the chest, plastering the fine wool of his turtleneck to his skin.

"Nu i shturm!" Yuri's voice boomed from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, leisurely peeling a banana. "Znayesh', bol'shinstvo lyudey ispol'zuyut kauchukovyye utochki, a ne taktiku morskogo boya." Now that's an assault! You know, most people use rubber duckies, not naval battle tactics. He took a large bite.

Viktor wrung out the hem of his sodden sleeve, his expression impassive. "Bol'shinstvo lyudey ne imeyut Mishy," he stated flatly. Most people don't have Misha.

As if on cue, Misha grinned, a gummy, triumphant display, and slapped the water again, this time directing the spray expertly towards Yuri. A direct hit on his banana.

"Da!" she crowed.

Yuri blinked, looking down at his soggy snack. To his credit, he didn't flinch. "U malyshki ruka tyazhelaya," he declared, admiration warring with resignation. Kid's got a heavy hand. "Budushchiy chempion Olimpiady." Future Olympian. He finished the banana in one defiant bite.

Later, seated at the vast, cold expanse of the dining table that usually hosted board meetings, Viktor spooned organic avocado mash towards Misha's expectant mouth. Half made it past her lips; the other half became avant-garde hair gel, expertly smeared into her dark curls with the focus of a tiny abstract expressionist. Viktor cleaned her with the same meticulous patience he applied to rare manuscripts, damp cloth moving gently over sticky cheeks and green-streaked hair.

Carrying her to her room – a space echoing his own stark aesthetic, softened only by the absurdly luxurious plushness of her crib and a mobile of matte black geometric shapes – Viktor settled into the low-slung chair beside it. He opened a slim, leather-bound notebook, not a children's book, but his own translations. The original Russian lullabies, passed down through the cold Volkov line, spoke of frozen rivers, hungry wolves, and lost children in dark woods. His versions, crafted in stolen moments, spoke of silver moons guarding sleep and warm winds whispering through safe dreams.

His voice, usually a blade or a shield, softened into a low, resonant murmur as he read. The unfamiliar cadence of gentle Russian washed over the dim room. "Spi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy..." Sleep, my beautiful baby...

Misha's eyelids grew heavy, fluttering like moth wings against her cheeks. Her breathing deepened, the frantic energy of the bath and the avocado war finally spent. Midway through a verse about protective stars, her tiny fist, which had been clutching the edge of his cashmere sweater, relaxed. Her fingers unfurled, then instinctively curled again, not around the sweater, but around the pad of his thumb. A warm, trusting anchor.

Viktor fell silent. He didn't move. Didn't dare breathe too deeply. He watched the steady, miraculous rise and fall of her small chest beneath the soft blanket. Watched the faint tremor of her eyelids as she dreamed. Dreams of conquest, perhaps? Of toppling Lego towers, outmaneuvering nannies, or mastering the parry-riposte with a tiny foil? The ghost of something profound – a peace deeper than silence, a warmth fiercer than any hearth – settled in the hollow space behind his ribs. In the reflection of the darkened window, the man holding the child's hand looked less like ice, and more like someone finally learning how to thaw.