Chapter Text
Moscow, December 1987.
The Siberian wind cut through the crowded indoor market like a rusted blade, carrying the heavy scent of boiled cabbage, cheap tobacco, and diesel. Beneath the cavernous arches of iron and stained concrete, a gray mass of people moved in a sluggish, unending hum, buried deep in their wool coats as they scavenged for anything to survive the winter.
Behind a splintered wooden stall, half-hidden in the shadow of a massive pillar, Reze waited.
She wore a frayed coat that was far too large for her slight frame, and a dark fur ushanka that completely concealed her indigo hair. Only her face emerged from the rough fabric—a striking contrast of ivory skin paled by the cold and a pair of emerald eyes, clear and terrifyingly sharp against the bleakness of the market. Tied snugly around her neck, like a permanent reminder, was a thin black silk ribbon. It was an incongruous touch of elegance. A quiet anomaly in the middle of squalor.
A dozen matryoshka dolls were lined up on the counter before her, hand-painted in loud, garish colors.
With numb fingers, Reze picked up the largest doll, pulled it apart with a practiced twist, and extracted the smaller one inside. Then another. And another. Five hollow wooden shells, nested perfectly within one another. A flawless illusion. She let out a faint, humorless breath, her green eyes never stopping their rhythmic scan of the room—calculating trajectories, exits, and faces.
“Bonjour,” a voice murmured behind her, cutting through the low roar of the market.
Reze didn’t stiffen. A fraction of a second before the man spoke, she had already caught the expensive scent of his French cologne and the distinct, light step of leather shoes that had never truly known the mud of Moscow.
She turned slowly, her entire posture shifting in a heartbeat. Her shoulders slouched just enough to look fragile, her eyes softened into a timid, startled wide-eyed look, and her lips parted in a display of vulnerable surprise. The predator vanished. In her place stood a desperate Russian girl, weathered by poverty.
The man before her was impeccably dressed, sporting a dark cashmere overcoat and a leather-bound notepad tucked under his arm. A talent scout from a top-tier Parisian modeling agency. The moment his eyes locked onto her symmetrical, magnetic features, they lit up.
“Do you speak French, mademoiselle?” he asked, entirely captivated.
Reze cast her gaze downward, feigning a touch of embarrassment as she pulled the edges of her oversized coat tighter around herself.
“A... a little,” she replied, forcing a thick, hesitant accent. “My father... he spoke it.” She paused, gesturing vaguely to the colorful wooden figures on her table. “Which one are you interested in?”
The scout smiled warmly, leaning against the edge of the wooden stall. “Honestly, I’m interested in you. I am a scout for a modeling agency in Paris. You are magnificent. Have you ever thought of leaving Moscow? Of coming to Paris? The fashion runways are waiting for faces just like yours.”
Reze let out a quiet, nervous breath, playing her part to perfection. “I’m already busy here in Moscow.”
The scout chuckled softly, gesturing to her counter. “By selling dolls?”
“I know nothing about modeling,” she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes with a brilliant imitation of self-doubt.
“I’m sure you’re a fast learner,” he reassured her, his tone smooth and persuasive. “And anyway, we take care of everything. Training, accommodation, visa, documentation. What’s your name?”
“Reze.”
The scout’s eyes traveled up to her head. “Reze, please, can you take off your hat for me to see your hair?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
With slow, delicate movements, she reached up and pulled off the heavy fur ushanka. Her short, indigo hair tumbled down, framing her striking jawline and accentuating the aristocratic slope of her neck.
The scout breathed out, completely floored. “Magnifique.”
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, withdrew an elegant, gold-embossed business card, and slid it gently onto the wooden counter right next to the smallest nested doll.
“Take the card,” he said, his voice brimming with the satisfaction of a man who believed he had just unburied a diamond in the rough. “We will see each other very soon.”
With a polite nod, he turned and melted back into the gray sea of the crowd, disappearing within moments.
Reze reached out. Her fingers, suddenly steady and devoid of any tremor, snapped up the business card. She slid it deep into her coat pocket, then grabbed the largest matryoshka. With a single, sharp slam of her palm, she sealed all the smaller wooden shells back inside the main doll, locking them away.
The timidity drained from her face like water. Her green eyes hardened into two slits of cold, unreadable glass. The first phase of the play was over. The matryoshka had opened, and the world was ready to see only the outermost shell.
Paris was waiting. And so was her target.