vlad.

Artyom

I've been in the office for hours. Long enough that my eyes are burning, and I'm not sure what time it is. I could stand up and open the blinds covering the window, but part of me doesn't want to know. If the sun has set, then I've been here too long. If the street below is emptied of people, then I've been here way too long. If the sun is already coming up, I'll need more coffee to make it through another day.

"What in the hell are you still doing here?"

The sound of another human jolts me from my work, and I push back from the desk, my wheels squealing, prepared to fight off the intruder. It takes me an exhausted second to recognize my own face, standing in the doorway

My twin brother.

"It's after midnight," Lukyan says, checking his wrist, though he doesn't have a watch on. He pushes the door closed and drops down into the leather chair across from my desk. The focused light of my desk lamp means that he is half-hidden in shadow, but even in the dark, I can see how worn he looks.

"You came here looking for me. Why do you sound so surprised to have found me?"

Lukyan lets out a humorless chuckle. "Because I hoped I was wrong about you, but apparently your life is just as sorry as I thought."

He is only half-joking, and we both know it. It isn't healthy, how much energy I devote to the family business, but it is all I know. It is all I've ever known. From the moment I was born, there were expectations, and I've always been willing to kill myself to meet them. Not just to please my father and my mother—though that is part of it. Mostly, it is for me. Who am I if I can't live up to my family legacy?

Lukyan has never suffered under the same burden, even though he should feel it more keenly than even I do. Born two minutes before me, he is the heir to the family legacy. We were conceived in the same moment, but because he took his first breaths one hundred and twenty seconds before me, he has to inherit the business and command the small army my father has gathered. I don't envy his position, even though it doesn't seem to stress him the way I think it should.

"Crime isn't as easy as people make it out to be," I say breezily, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. I tip my head towards him. "Why were you looking for me?"

The fake smile falls away immediately, and Lukyan runs a hand through his hair. I'm not surprised. I could tell from the moment he walked in that something was wrong. Not to mention, he rarely visits me at the office. Though Lukyan and I are two halves of the same being, we couldn't be more different.

He may be the first born, but he likes to keep a safe distance from anything that resembles hard work. Usually, the only time I see him is when I finally head home after a late night in the office to find him passed out on my sofa. It is how he knows better than anyone the hours I devote to the family business. I've tripped over him in the dark enough times that he knows my schedule.

He reaches beneath his wrinkled shirt and pulls something from the waistband of his jeans. He looks like he could do with a shave and a shower, but I long ago gave up pestering him to take care of himself. That is our mother's job.

He pulls out an envelope, crumpled and damp from where it was pressed against his hip. "Father left me a message."

My brows pulled together as I took the letter from his hand. "He sent you this?"

"Left it for me," Lukyan corrects. "I found it pinned to my front door."

My heart sputters in my chest. In our business, finding things taped to your front door is never a good sign. It is a threat. It means the sender knew where you lived, and they want you to know they could access you at any time. Of course, Father knows where Lukyan and I live—he even has a spare key to my apartment—but the ominous undertones remain. He could've sent a text or left a voicemail. Instead, he chose this.

"Have you read it?"

"Of course I read it," Lukyan says, flinging himself back in his chair so it rocks backwards on the rear legs. "It was nailed to my fucking door. I couldn't exactly ignore it."

"Nailed?" I lift the flap, noticing the jagged tear where Lukyan had torn it open and, for the first time, the hole in the center. It really had been hammered in. Lukyan says nothing as I read the familiar, spiky scrawl.

Lukyan,

My grace is running out. I will not allow you to be an embarrassment to this family. Fail me again, and you will be out of our business for good.

-Vlad