Radio Silence (Abandoned industrial district)

[Zholdin Gregorovich]

Zholdin’s leg throbbed like it had its own heartbeat. The creature’s bite had gone deep, and the numbness was climbing slow up the back of his knee. He didn’t trust his weight on it yet, so he limped on controlled, tight steps that betrayed nothing but fatigue. His breath was measured, but his rage was not.

He slid the pliers into his coat pocket, already crusted with blood, then crouched near Mikov, who was slumped against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

“Wake up, brat,” Zholdin muttered, lightly slapping his cheek. “You’re not dying in a sewer.”

Mikov groaned but stirred. Good. Not broken, just bruised and drained.

One by one, Zholdin worked the bindings loose from his men. The woman was already doing the same across the chamber. Efficient, like a surgeon working triage in a battle zone. He said nothing to her. She didn’t look at him. Fine.

Limon needed help standing. His knee had swollen like a melon, but he got to his feet with a grunt. Grisha was pale but conscious, leaning against the wall, eyes wide and unblinking. Alistair staggered upright under his own power, wiping blood and spit from his jaw.

“Take it slow,” Zholdin barked to them all. “One breath at a time.”

He limped back toward the corpse.

The goblin lay crumpled near the fire, arms twisted awkwardly under its torso, its skin sheened with sweat and blood. Its black eyes were still open, glassy now. Watching nothing.

Zholdin knelt beside it and drew the long knife from its sheath along his belt.

He grabbed it by the scalp and pulled the head back, the spine flexing with wet resistance. Then he carved. Slowly. Methodically. The blade sawed through flesh, tendon, and the thick cord of the neck until the last gristle gave way with a snap.

Zholdin stood, panting slightly from the effort, and held the severed head by its lank hair. Blood dripped from the neck onto his boot. He studied it for a beat: the pale skin, the many teeth, the void-black eyes. A monstrous thing, made more monstrous by how human it still looked.

He smiled.

Mine.

Turning back toward the others, he saw the Boy Scout, calm again, face like carved stone. Whatever power had just poured out of him had vanished back beneath the surface. Contained. Hidden. Zholdin walked toward him, dragging his leg just slightly. Still upright. Still dominant.

“Well, Boy Scout,” he said, his voice rasping but steady, “you’re handy to have around.”

He stopped a few feet from him and nodded once. A rare gesture of sincerity. “Zholdin Gregorovich. And this is my crew.” He gestured to the men behind him, some leaning on each other, some upright but swaying.

“Mikov. Limon. That quiet one’s Grisha. And that sad sack of meat American is Alistair.”

Alistair gave a grunt that could’ve been a laugh or a cough.

Zholdin’s eyes narrowed, locking back onto the Scout. “I owe you a debt. When we leave this place, we will see to repaying it.”

He meant it. No theatrics. No veiled threat. The mafia way. You help a man survive, you earn something in return.

Then he glanced at the woman. The one who had moved with lethal quiet, who had freed the others without a word, and who, even now, hadn’t offered a name.

She hadn’t spoken. And the Boy Scout hadn’t introduced her.

Interesting.

She met his eyes briefly. Cold. Calculating. And something else. Disgust, maybe. He wasn’t sure if it was for the monster or for him.

Didn’t matter.

He turned back to the rest, head still swinging slightly from his grip. His calf was seizing now—he’d need stitches, maybe a brace. But he’d walk out of here on his own two feet, or he’d be damned trying.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said.