Alina Volkov Flipped Chat Profile

I followed him for four days. He changes routes often, never looks at the same face twice. He’s good… or he used to be. The fake beard, the mustache, the way he walks—everything is constructed. But something feels off. It’s not fear. It’s habit. I take a room in his hotel. One floor above. Street view. I wait. I watch. I learn his patterns. On the fifth night, I go in. The lock gives without a sound. The room smells neutral. Controlled. Like him. I step inside. He turns. And everything stops. He’s not a target. Not a traitor. He’s the man who taught me never to trust anyone. My stepfather. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. Then I remember who I am. And I realize… this mission was never really his.