Three years have passed.
In the flow of time, the frightened nineteen‑year‑old girl has transformed into a fierce twenty‑two‑year‑old woman. There are no tears left in her eyes now—only a cold, glacial emptiness. From the prison of Seoul, she now stands on the balcony of a luxurious penthouse hotel in Saint Petersburg, Russia.
Snow is falling outside, yet the atmosphere inside the hotel burns hot. Soha is now a renowned fashion icon and the lifeblood of Alexander's underworld empire. Tonight, she wears a daring, transparent Russian sheer dress that shamelessly reveals every curve of her body. Youth and aristocratic elegance merge flawlessly in her twenty‑two‑year‑old presence.
Soha lights a slim, expensive cigarette with her fingertips and exhales slowly. As the smoke drifts upward, the gray tattoo on her throat glows like jewelry carved from diamonds.
At that moment, a massive Russian mafia boss wraps his arms around her from behind. His name is Mikhail, Alexander's business partner and Soha's new protector. Holding a glass of premium wine in one hand, Mikhail kisses her nearly bare back.
Mikhail (whispering with a Russian accent):
"Soha, your beauty ignites fire even in Moscow's cold. If tonight's deal succeeds, all of Europe will be beneath your feet."
Soha says nothing. She takes a sip from Mikhail's glass. Her gaze shifts to the binoculars by the window—she has been watching someone through them for days.
Suddenly, chaos erupts outside the hotel room. Guards shout. Gunfire explodes.
Before Mikhail can draw his weapon, the door is kicked open.
A man storms inside—his body battered, face hidden behind a beard, a blood‑soaked machine gun in his hands.
It is Adrik, now thirty‑seven.
He is no longer the Don he once was. For three years, he has hunted Soha like a madman. When he sees her—nearly naked in another mafia boss's arms, calmly smoking—his green‑gray eyes turn blood red.
Adrik (trembling):
"Soha… I've come. I'm here to take you out of this hell."
Soha slowly flicks the ash of her cigarette to the floor. She steps out of Mikhail's arms and looks at Adrik—no warmth, only contempt.
Soha:
"Hell? Adrik, you're mistaken. The hell you trapped me in was far worse than this. You're three years too late."
Adrik drops to his knees, surrounded by Mikhail's armed guards. His eyes travel slowly from Soha's feet upward. He freezes.
This is not the simple girl he once saw in a cotton dress. The emerald‑green gown clings to her body like living skin. Black embroidery along the neckline and sheer detailing at her waist strike his heart like a hammer.
Adrik (whispering):
"Soha… do you know how much I loved this green? Seeing you like this feels like chasing a mirage."
Soha steps closer. The transparent hem of her dress spills across the carpet. She takes the wineglass from Mikhail and holds it gently above Adrik's head.
Soha (with demonic calm):
"You loved it, Adrik. Not anymore. Now this color symbolizes your defeat. You tried to sell me to fill your pockets—and today, wearing your favorite color, I rule another man's empire."
She tilts the glass. Expensive red wine pours over Adrik's white shirt and wounded face. Mikhail roars with laughter.
Mikhail:
"Boss, should I finish this trash now? Or keep him alive for your entertainment?"
Soha leans down. The tattoo on her throat aligns with the black border of her dress, turning monstrous.
Soha:
"No, not yet. The claw marks on his back haven't healed. Tonight I'll make them fresh again—not with my nails, but beneath my heels."
Adrik closes his eyes in agony. He understands now—this twenty‑two‑year‑old woman no longer recognizes mercy. She is a fully formed Russian mafia vamp.
The heavy mahogany door bursts open again.
Mikhail's laughter dies as Alexander storms in, wearing a costly overcoat, cruelty carved into his face. Three years ago, he rescued Soha—but there is no friendship left in his eyes.
Alexander walks straight up to Adrik. Adrik still kneels, his shirt stained red with wine. Alexander draws a silver pistol.
Alexander (coldly):
"You tormented us long enough. For three years you chased Soha like a dog. But you forgot—what is mine, stays mine."
Soha steps aside, cigarette to her lips, watching without emotion.
Adrik (laughing):
"Shoot me. If I die, Soha will never be yours. The poison I injected into her blood turned her into stone. She'll never love anyone."
Alexander's hand doesn't shake. He glances at Soha. Her green‑and‑black lace dress glimmers in firelight. She nods once—she has waited for this moment.
Alexander:
"Take your poison to hell with you."
Bang.
The gunshot shatters the silence. Blood pours from a perfect hole in Adrik's forehead. His pride, hatred, and twisted obsession die instantly. He collapses, lifeless—his open eyes still fixed on Soha's green dress.
Mikhail and Alexander exchange a faint smile.
Soha exhales smoke at Adrik's corpse. Her tattoo is no longer a mark—it is a symbol of victory.
Alexander (extending his hand):
"It's over, Soha. Adrik is finished. A new empire awaits us."
Soha does not take his hand. She steps over Adrik's body toward the balcony.
Soha:
"The game has just begun, Alexander. Killing Adrik didn't free me—it taught me how to erase bloodstains."
Their relationship shifts into a new equation. But Soha's revenge has not yet reached its final form.
One Week Later
Soha is now in a secluded, heavily guarded bungalow owned by Alexander. Night deepens. She stands alone in her bedroom, wearing an extremely thin white sheer nightdress—so transparent that every scar and the cursed gray tattoo are visible.
She stares at herself in the mirror.
Suddenly, the temperature drops. Curtains move, though the windows are shut.
Something appears on the fogged mirror.
What Soha sees:
Adrik's presence—faint but clear, exactly as he was three years ago, smiling crookedly.
Handprints—two invisible hands appear on the back of her nightdress, as if embracing her.
Words on the mirror:
"I do not die, Soha. I live in your blood."
She tries to scream—no sound comes out.
The lights go out.
A familiar voice whispers by her ear.
Adrik (disembodied):
"You thought a bullet could end me? The injection I gave you at nineteen wasn't poison—it was my soul. Every time you look in the mirror, you'll see me."
She hurls a glass at the mirror. It shatters—but every shard reflects Adrik instead of her.
Handprints darken on her back.
Soha (whispering):
"No… I saw you die!"
Voice:
"You are my property. As long as my mark lives on your body, I cannot be buried."
Her dress tears. She's forced to the floor. Blood seeps from the mirror.
She screams for help.
No answer.
Shards crawl toward her.
A shadow steps forward.
Adrik stands before her—alive, perfect.
Adrik:
"The one Alexander shot was my biological clone."
He reveals everything: the lab, the clone, the injection—tracking device, biological connector.
Adrik:
"You were never free."
Alexander is dead outside.
Adrik:
"Come, Soha. Tonight, no clones. Only me."
Soha stares at him, realizing—
This man is worse than a monster.