Scene: Silent Execution
Alia stands in a flawless white dress, her perfectly brown hair flowing. In her eyes—cold fire. On her lips—a mysterious half-smile.
She knows—there will be no mercy tonight.
Three men stand in front of her—old enemies who once betrayed her trust.
Their eyes are full of disbelief and fear, but Alia gives them just one look—
A final signal.
She steps forward. From her hand, she pulls out a slim cigarette. Smoke slowly dances around her, as if time has paused.
There is no trace of fear in her eyes. Instead, an undeniable message of power.
The first man lunges forward—
With a swift spin, Alia pulls a small but deadly dagger from her side.
It gleams sharply, wickedly.
As the second man charges, Alia strikes with a powerful southern kick, throwing him straight to the ground.
Her movements are seamless—not domestic, but trained, precise—like a warrior.
The third man draws a weapon, but Alia is faster.
She grabs his hand, disarms him, and with a single perfect shot—
He hits the ground.
All three lie on the floor—injured, barely conscious.
Alia walks toward them slowly, looking each one in the eye.
Alia (coldly):
"That was your last chance."
Her voice—sharp, cutting.
She turns away, takes another drag from her cigarette. Smoke surrounds her like a veil of fate.
Her white dress seems to glow brighter now—
Because this woman is no longer just a figure—
She's a queen. Regal. Terrifying.
That night, the three enemies realized—
Alia isn't just a woman.
She is a living force of vengeance, and the only way to survive her…
is to kneel.
---
Scene: Interrogation and Revelation
Alia walks slowly toward one of the three men.
Her eyes shimmer with fierce intensity and burning questions.
Between curls of smoke, she lets out a chilling smile.
Alia (calmly):
"I can barely look at you. Tell me—who sent you?"
The man winces, tries to stay strong, but his voice trembles as he speaks.
Man:
"He… he sent me… he…"
Alia's eyes grow sharper.
Alia (stepping closer):
"What's the name? Say it."
The man breathes heavily, eyes still locked with hers.
Man (softly):
"His name… B… B…"
(He pauses, then with depth)
"Brian Morgan."
A gleaming smile forms on Alia's lips.
She leans back slowly.
She knows that name—Brian Morgan—
It carries danger.
---
Scene: Demanding Details
Alia steps in close, locking eyes with the man.
Alia:
"Brian Morgan… you said he sent you. What was his purpose? Why were you sent?"
The man's face tightens, but he has nowhere to run.
Alia's voice cuts through the air—stern and cold.
Alia:
"What's your connection with him? Are you just a hired guard, or part of something bigger? How does he contact you? Do you have documents, a number, any code?"
The man struggles to speak.
Alia places a hand on his shoulder—firm, warning.
Alia (low, threatening):
"Say the words. You have no idea how patient I can be. But if you don't speak, I'll have to take you deeper."
Fear strikes the man's face. He finally breaks.
Man:
"Brian Morgan is part of a major mafia syndicate. He's Russian… but he runs operations across Europe too. He only communicates through encrypted messages… I can't even decrypt them on my phone."
Alia's eyes narrow with calculated depth.
Alia:
"And what did he give you? What was the mission?"
Man (trembling):
"I was told to deliver a critical list… it has names—some are marked for death, some to be kept silent. There's a deadline."
Alia exhales, a small smile forms. Smoke swirls.
Alia:
"Where did you get the list? And what did you do with it?"
Man:
"I'm just a messenger… the list is with Brian. I was told to… to inform you, Madam Alia."
Alia pauses. Takes a deep breath.
Alia:
"Smart move. But remember… your life now depends on me."
---
INT – Brian Morgan's LUXURIOUS Russian MANSION – NIGHT
Brian Morgan sits in an enormous, gold-trimmed room, lounging in a luxurious chair.
In his hand—a phone. On its screen, a picture of Alia.
She's in a red dress, stylish glasses, and that mysterious, knowing smile.
Brian slowly scans the image… planning something.
He whispers with a grin:
Brian:
"Beautiful. Dangerous… just the way I remember her."
---
Cut to:
INT – Alia's OFFICE – SAME TIME
---
Scene: Arrival at Victor's Mansion
EXT – MOSCOW STREET – MORNING
Alia drives a stunning white Bentley through the heart of Moscow.
She pulls up to a grand, expensive estate. Two guards stand alert at the gate.
One of them opens the door respectfully:
Guard:
"Welcome, Madam."
Alia offers a cold smile and steps out of the car—graceful, unstoppable.
---
INT – VICTOR'S MANSION – LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
Victor sits on a regal sofa. Lines of thought across his forehead, but his eyes still hold strength—
That old fire.
He wears a crisp white shirt.
The door opens.
Alia walks in—slowly, powerfully—toward him.
Victor locks eyes with her.
Victor:
"Alia…"
She places a hand on his shoulder, smiles softly, and slowly sits on his lap.
In their eyes—fire.
On their lips—tenderness.
They lean in, meeting in a soft, slow kiss.
---
INT – VICTOR'S MANSION – CONTINUOUS
In Alia's eyes—tenderness, but fierce resolve.
In Victor's—love… and unfinished stories.
Alia (whispers):
"Our war isn't over yet."
Victor nods:
Victor:
"Together—we'll take them all down."
The fire in the fireplace crackled softly, casting golden flickers across the luxurious living room.
Outside, Moscow's night stood silent. Inside, time had slowed.
Victor held Alia gently, his hand resting on the curve of her back.
She, in her elegant white dress, looked like winter herself—beautiful, cold, and untouchable.
But tonight, that distance was melting.
Alia's hair fell over her shoulder as she leaned into him, her breath warm against his neck.
The white silk of her dress brushed against Victor's skin as she moved closer, resting her head briefly against his chest—listening to the steady rhythm of a man who once meant war, and now held peace in his arms.
They said nothing at first.
Only the silence spoke—of wounds unhealed, of promises once broken, and of a connection too strong to sever.
Victor gently lifted her chin, looking into her eyes.
Victor (softly):
"You've changed…"
Alia (whispering):
"You haven't. And that's why I came back."
Their lips met again, not in urgency, but in understanding.
Alia's dress slipped slightly from her shoulder, revealing the soft glow of her skin under the firelight.
Victor's hand ran up her arm—slowly, carefully—like he was tracing a memory.
They didn't need to rush.
The night was theirs.
And in that quiet, flickering light, with only the city outside bearing witness, they rediscovered each other—
not just as allies in war, but as something deeper. Something dangerously tender.
Scene: Quiet After the Storm
The night is deep.
Inside the room, there is utter silence—
Only the curtain sways gently with the cold breeze.
Alia lies in bed,
Her body wrapped in a soft white blanket.
Firelight casts a warm golden hue over her bare skin, glowing softly beneath the folds.
Victor sits quietly beside her.
He watches her sleeping face for a long moment,
Then gently reaches out and brushes a few strands of hair from her forehead—
As if trying to hold on to time itself.
Alia's eyes are closed.
Whether she's asleep or simply pretending, it's impossible to tell.
Her breathing is slow… steady… peaceful.
Victor leans in slightly, whispering under his breath:
Victor (softly):
"When you sleep… the world feels right, just for a moment."
There's guilt in his eyes.
A quiet storm he's trying to keep hidden.
But also a fierce need to protect her—from everything.
He knows when the sun rises, the war resumes.
But right now, in this fleeting slice of peace—
They are just two people.
Not spies, not soldiers, not enemies or lovers tangled in power.
Just Victor and Alia.
Wrapped in the silence of the night, outside the chaos of the worldScene: Breath Between Two Hearts
Victor's eyes don't leave her.
In the hush of the night, he shifts closer—careful, deliberate.
He slides his arm gently around Alia's waist beneath the blanket.
Her skin, warm against his, responds with a subtle shiver.
Leaning in, he presses a kiss to her bare back—slow, reverent.
A moment carved from stillness, deep and unspoken.
Alia exhales softly, not quite asleep now.
She doesn't open her eyes, but her body turns slightly, receiving him.
Her hand finds his, fingers gently locking.
Victor's cold, ice-blue eyes—usually calculating and unreadable—now seem to hold something else.
A softness.
A trace of magic.
He rests his forehead lightly against her shoulder, as if trying to memorize the shape of her, the rhythm of peace he rarely finds.
No words are exchanged.
None are needed.
Only breaths.
Only touch.
Only two souls, suspended in the quiet before the storm returns.