Ugly Duckling
Zhenya x reader (fl)
Code Name Anastasia
Being ugly means no one being interested in you. That’s the great thing of agency. But you have a secret to conceal what’s underneath.
Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four
Contains: Spy Thriller | Psychological | Dark Romance | non-consensual | unbothered Queen🧎♀️➡️😭
The cold wind of Moscow bit at your cheeks, sharp even through the thermal layers of your coat. You moved quietly down the frozen corridor of the old military outpost, your footsteps muffled but trailing steadily behind Taekjoo. The mission was clear: infiltrate and investigate the weapon project codenamed Anastasia—a rumored weapon of mass destruction, said to possess the potential to shift the global power balance entirely.
Taekjoo arrived under disguise; you, on the other hand, came as yourself. His alias: Sakamoto Hiro. His fabricated identity was flawless, right down to the surgically-altered face. You barely recognized him when he first stepped off the plane.
Then there was Agent Zhenya—Pskih Gogdanov—FSB’s ghost in human form. Pale, tall, winter-eyed. A man carved straight from Russian frost. You and Taekjoo had been warned: be careful with him.
He was the Kremlin’s reluctant offering to your mission.
Taekjoo first encountered him in the elevator of the Moscow field office. His phone pinged with a new report—the assigned contact. He tapped the screen, expecting a name and a cold file photo. Instead, he froze.
Behind him, a voice hummed low. “Hm?”
Taekjoo turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. The man standing there met his gaze with a knowing smirk.
“That’s me,” he said.
Zhenya paid you no attention.
His focus was on Taekjoo.
You’d watched the tension bloom—suspicious, cold, competitive. They clashed like cats and dogs: blunt reports, clipped tones, glares that could kill. But then came the whispers. Shared glances that lingered too long. The quiet orbit they began to fall into, unspoken but palpable.
You’d seen what you weren’t supposed to.
A door left slightly ajar. The sound of breathlessness. A flash of skin slick with sweat. Your breath had caught—and you’d left, quiet as always.
They never knew you saw.
But then again, they never noticed you at all.
Why would they?
To them, you were forgettable. At best. Ugly, some had joked in passing. The scars, the uneven skin, the unremarkable features—just part of the illusion.
The scars on your face, the asymmetry, the dull skin—all part of the carefully built illusion. Your mask, custom-made with surgical detail, fit so well even you sometimes forgot what lay underneath.
That mask had been your shield—given to you by the Director after you agreed to one favor. Just one.
You still remembered that night. You’d just turned twenty. A desperate request to join the agency, a reckless promise to do anything. You hadn't cried. You just laid there, numb, as his cold hands touched skin no one had before.
The next morning, the mask was given to you in a velvet-lined case. And an identity forged.
Before all of this, you had been soft. Soft in the way people wanted to bruise. Your face had been the kind that made grown men stupid. Large, dewy eyes that tilted down at the edges like you were always on the verge of crying. Rose-petal lips that curved gently, always parted just slightly. The skin of your cheeks had been like milk steeped in blush.
Your mother used to keep your hair pinned up tight, put hats on your head, told you never to meet men’s eyes. You had seen too much too early. The neighbor who stared too long. The teacher who tried to touch your thigh. The man on the subway. And your mother, who never let go of your hand until you were inside your bedroom with the door locked.
So when the agency offered the mask, you didn’t say no.
No one looked at you like that anymore.
No one tried to claim you.
You had made yourself invisible.
They didn’t know you had a separate room. One built into the foundation of the old Russian military base. It had been offered as part of the Director’s generosity—"A girl like you needs privacy,” he’d said, smiling too wide.
That night, you returned alone. Your footsteps light on the concrete.
You closed the thick steel door, locked it behind you, and finally—finally—took the mask off.
It always ached a little. Pulling away the skin-like adhesive, peeling off the second face you wore like armor. Your real face breathed. You blinked, your lashes long, your skin glowing pale and soft under the flickering yellow lights.
You sat in front of the mirror. Naked-faced, finally human. You rubbed your cheeks gently, trying to revive the blood flow. Your lips trembled a little. Not because you were cold. But because you could feel yourself again.
You thought you were alone.
But from the second you took off the mask, a small camera lens—tucked inside the ventilation panel in the corner of the room—flicked on silently.
And far down the hall, a certain agent named Zhenya stared at his wrist monitor, stunned.
Zhenya didn’t say anything the next day. Not to you. Not to anyone.
But you caught it.
The hesitation in his gaze when you passed him in the hallway.
The slight furrow between his brows when you turned away too quickly.
His usual confidence was still there—he still flirted with Taekjoo, still teased him in Russian under his breath—but something shifted.
He looked at you, now.
Not like the others. Not with hunger or lust.
With curiosity. Like he had seen a ghost.
Like he had a secret.
You didn’t confront him. You were used to being watched. Your whole life had been surveillance, expectation, threat.
But you noticed the changes.
Zhenya started standing closer. Walking with you down corridors without saying much. Once, he passed you a mug of coffee without looking at you, but it was exactly the kind you liked. You hadn’t told anyone.
He started staying behind during debriefs. Just long enough to glance at you when no one else was looking.
And then, one night, as snowstorm raged outside the base, he found you alone in the strategy room.
“Do you know what Anastasia means in Russian?” he asked, voice low.
You didn’t answer. You watched the snow fall against the window.
“__.”
You turned to look at him.
And for the first time, he met your eyes—not with pity, not with lust. But with something quieter. Like he was seeing the beginning of a story.
Not an agent.
Not a weapon.
Not a mask.
Just you.
Your eyes narrowed in confusion. He had said something in Russian, something about what Anastasia means. Your brow only furrowed with confusion. ‘What a weird guy.’