A/N : This book will be updated every day now, Thanks for waiting.
I have also changed it from No harem to harem. There will be lemons too [you have been warned or invited ;) ]
****
The Red Room, also known as the Black Widow Program, was a secret Soviet-Russian training initiative designed to take young girls and turn them into elite spies and assassins known as Black Widows. Initially, the program relied heavily on psychological conditioning to ensure the Widows' obedience, but by the 2000s, it had advanced to outright mind control.
All Black Widows were carefully handpicked by the program's overseers for their genetic potential, often selected as infants. Some of these girls were orphans or abandoned children, while others were outright taken from their families—whether through negotiation or by force. Once chosen, the girls faced relentless daily training in hand-to-hand combat, acrobatics, firearms, and tactical maneuvers. From time to time, pairs were forced to spar violently, and any sign of weakness was met with lethal consequences—the loser was executed by her opponent.
The conditioning extended to psychological manipulation. The girls were made to watch movies like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, but these films were laced with subliminal commands: "Instill," "Fear," "Pain," gradually rewiring their minds. At night, they were handcuffed to their beds to prevent any attempts at escape. Their training also included grueling ballet sessions, with instructors forcing them to repeat routines endlessly until their will was broken and rebuilt into something unyielding. When learning to handle firearms, the Widows didn't practice on targets—they used live people. The program was so brutal that only about one in twenty girls survived each generation, largely due to Dreykov's insistence on eliminating any so-called "defects."
—
He rattled all this off from memory, recalling it with the obsessive detail of a die-hard Marvel fan. As a kid, he used to read every cheat sheet, backstory, and wiki he could find—Black Widow lore included. "Hmm, what else am I forgetting?"
"Yeah, right now the Red Room's stationed in Belarus, though they later moved it onto a mobile aerial platform," he muttered to himself after piecing together everything he'd memorized. "Guess I'll head to Belarus. The Red Room there operates under the disguise of a boarding school."
A sly grin tugged at his lips. "Hehe, maybe if things play out right, I can get a few Black Widows to serve as my personal assistants. I mean, come on—if you're living in the Marvel world, why not go all out and become a harem king?"
If he didn't, wouldn't that just be squandering this precious second life?
With that thought burning bright in his mind, he grabbed his phone and quickly pulled up a booking site. It didn't take him long to reserve a first-class ticket to Belarus, set to depart the very next morning. Money was no obstacle anymore—he had more than enough to live like royalty.
The next day, he stood by the curb with a sleek black suitcase in hand, his driver waiting to load it into the trunk. Dressed sharply in a tailored suit, he couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement coil through his chest. This was it. He was finally stepping beyond idle fantasies and internet daydreams—off to chase down the infamous Red Room itself.
As he settled into the plush leather seat of his car, watching the cityscape slip by on the way to the airport, a lazy smirk played on his face. Power, danger, beautiful assassins—it was all waiting for him. And this time, he was determined to take everything he ever wanted.
At the airport, he moved through the VIP lanes with effortless ease. Security barely gave him a second glance, and soon he was lounging in a private waiting area, sipping an expensive coffee while checking updates on his phone. Everything felt surreal—yesterday he was just idly plotting this move, and today he was already en route to the heart of a shadowy program that had haunted countless Marvel storylines.
When boarding was announced, he walked up the ramp with calm, confident steps. Settling into the plush first-class seat, he leaned back with a satisfied sigh. The stewardess came by to offer him champagne, and he accepted it with a charming smile, savoring the crisp taste as he looked out the window at the tarmac.
He closed his eyes and let the hum of the engines lull him into a light doze.
By the time he awoke, the plane was descending through a thick quilt of clouds, the seatbelt sign blinking overhead. He ran a hand through his hair, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
The plane descended smoothly through the heavy summer clouds, the sprawling landscape of Belarus slowly coming into view—lush green fields dotted with small villages and dense forests that seemed to whisper secrets.
Once past immigration, he was greeted by a private chauffeur holding a placard with his name. They whisked him away in a sleek black Mercedes, the world outside turning into a blur of old European charm—cobblestone streets, baroque architecture, and quiet parks that seemed to hold centuries of stories.
His hotel was a lavish five-star palace right in the heart of Minsk, boasting towering columns, grand chandeliers, and rooms bigger than most apartments. As a newly minted millionaire, he saw no reason to hold back. He booked the presidential suite without batting an eye. The staff practically fell over themselves to cater to his every whim, their polite smiles tinged with awe at his casual display of wealth, wielded by someone his age.
That night, he lounged on a massive bed draped in fine linens, the city lights twinkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. A crystal glass of aged whiskey sat on the nightstand, half-empty as he flipped through pictures on his phone—selfies in bustling markets, snapshots of ornate cathedrals, and short clips of lively street performances.
Over the next three days, he played the tourist in full, striding through Minsk's quaint streets with a camera slung around his neck. He sampled local dishes at upscale restaurants, bought souvenirs he didn't really need, and even posed in front of historical monuments. Every few hours, he'd message or video call back home, if only to keep up appearances.
His mother, of course, was endlessly worried. "Why Belarus of all places?" she fretted over the phone, her voice tight with concern. "You're off gallivanting in some strange country when you could just stay here and—"
"Relax, Mom," he'd chuckle, flashing his most reassuring grin. "I'm just enjoying life. Taking in the world. I promise I'll be careful."