Today, 01:10 AM
(This post was last modified: Today, 01:12 AM by Zholdin Gregorovich.)
Zholdin watched the woman approach like she was stepping into a den of wolves with a knife behind her back. Which, fair enough, she probably was. Still, her voice was cool, steady, and sharp as a snapped wire. “Call me Grym,” she said. No last name. Of course not.
Then her eyes cut to the duffel bag like she was already picturing it burning. “I’ll be taking that head with me. If you want a trophy, hunt lions on safari like a normal person.”
Zholdin leaned back in his chair, watching her like one might watch a stray dog piss on the wrong tire.
His lip curled.
“Oh, someone's head is getting mounted on my wall tonight, kуколка,” he said, voice heavy with mock cheer. “And I'd prefer it's the creature’s… but if you keep wagging your tongue like that, I can make an exception.”
The men behind him burst into laughter—ragged, exhausted, but honest. Limon gave a wheezing chuckle. “Damn, boss, she’s gonna put you on a list.”
“She already has,” Zholdin muttered, smirking around a wince as he adjusted his leg. “But don’t worry, boys. I still got two hands and a good eye.”
He let the line hang in the air, then gave Grym a longer look. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react. Ice through and through. He didn’t hate it. But he didn’t like being told what to do especially not by someone who looked like she should be pouring drinks in a backroom club, not ordering him around in his own fortress.
He turned his head as Doc Semyon stepped up, wiping his hands with a stained towel.
“Your leg,” the doctor said in his usual clipped tone. “The swelling’s not normal. Looks like venom. No necrosis, no blistering, so not a viper. Maybe paralytic in nature.”
Zholdin grunted. “You have something for it?”
Doc shook his head. “No known anti-venom. And I’m not injecting mystery fluids into you just to feel helpful. Let it run its course. I’ll monitor. Ice it, keep it elevated. Could wear off by morning. Or paralyze you from the hip down. We’ll see.”
Zholdin let out a harsh laugh. “Comforting bedside manner, as always.”
“I treat bullets better than bites,” Doc replied, already turning back to the next man.
Zholdin exhaled slowly, then leaned forward on one knee, ignoring the spike of pain. “Alright. You lot are stable enough not to die on the mats. Once you’re cleared, head upstairs. Steam rooms, showers, locker suites. There’s food coming. Real food, not the usual microwave shit. I want everyone cleaned up and breathing normal before I start doling out vodka and vengeance.”
The crew muttered grateful acknowledgments, too tired to cheer.
Zholdin let his eyes drift back toward Giovanni, who leaned casually against the far wall like he hadn’t just thrown fire and shadows around like a demigod.
Zholdin narrowed his eyes.
“You,” he said, pointing a thick finger toward him. “I saw what you did back there. Lifting that thing in the air. Fire. Chains made of air. I don’t know what the fuck that was, but I liked it.”
Zholdin tilted his head, smirk forming again. “Tell me, Boy Scout… can that magic of yours be taught?”
The silence in the room stretched. A few of the men looked up, puzzled or intrigued. Alistair groaned as he rolled his shoulder and muttered something about “satanic bullshit,” but no one paid him any mind. Zholdin didn't press. Not yet. But his mind was working.
If that kind of power could be learned, wielded… well, he’d damn well find a way. Magic or not, he was no man’s pawn. And if the world was changing, he didn’t plan to be left behind. He'd always clawed his way to the top of the food chain. That wouldn't stop now.
He leaned back again, head thudding gently against the concrete wall behind him. Leg burning. Mouth dry. Crew alive. And two strangers now tangled in his world. He could already smell the blood in the water.
* kуколка = Little Doll
Then her eyes cut to the duffel bag like she was already picturing it burning. “I’ll be taking that head with me. If you want a trophy, hunt lions on safari like a normal person.”
Zholdin leaned back in his chair, watching her like one might watch a stray dog piss on the wrong tire.
His lip curled.
“Oh, someone's head is getting mounted on my wall tonight, kуколка,” he said, voice heavy with mock cheer. “And I'd prefer it's the creature’s… but if you keep wagging your tongue like that, I can make an exception.”
The men behind him burst into laughter—ragged, exhausted, but honest. Limon gave a wheezing chuckle. “Damn, boss, she’s gonna put you on a list.”
“She already has,” Zholdin muttered, smirking around a wince as he adjusted his leg. “But don’t worry, boys. I still got two hands and a good eye.”
He let the line hang in the air, then gave Grym a longer look. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react. Ice through and through. He didn’t hate it. But he didn’t like being told what to do especially not by someone who looked like she should be pouring drinks in a backroom club, not ordering him around in his own fortress.
He turned his head as Doc Semyon stepped up, wiping his hands with a stained towel.
“Your leg,” the doctor said in his usual clipped tone. “The swelling’s not normal. Looks like venom. No necrosis, no blistering, so not a viper. Maybe paralytic in nature.”
Zholdin grunted. “You have something for it?”
Doc shook his head. “No known anti-venom. And I’m not injecting mystery fluids into you just to feel helpful. Let it run its course. I’ll monitor. Ice it, keep it elevated. Could wear off by morning. Or paralyze you from the hip down. We’ll see.”
Zholdin let out a harsh laugh. “Comforting bedside manner, as always.”
“I treat bullets better than bites,” Doc replied, already turning back to the next man.
Zholdin exhaled slowly, then leaned forward on one knee, ignoring the spike of pain. “Alright. You lot are stable enough not to die on the mats. Once you’re cleared, head upstairs. Steam rooms, showers, locker suites. There’s food coming. Real food, not the usual microwave shit. I want everyone cleaned up and breathing normal before I start doling out vodka and vengeance.”
The crew muttered grateful acknowledgments, too tired to cheer.
Zholdin let his eyes drift back toward Giovanni, who leaned casually against the far wall like he hadn’t just thrown fire and shadows around like a demigod.
Zholdin narrowed his eyes.
“You,” he said, pointing a thick finger toward him. “I saw what you did back there. Lifting that thing in the air. Fire. Chains made of air. I don’t know what the fuck that was, but I liked it.”
Zholdin tilted his head, smirk forming again. “Tell me, Boy Scout… can that magic of yours be taught?”
The silence in the room stretched. A few of the men looked up, puzzled or intrigued. Alistair groaned as he rolled his shoulder and muttered something about “satanic bullshit,” but no one paid him any mind. Zholdin didn't press. Not yet. But his mind was working.
If that kind of power could be learned, wielded… well, he’d damn well find a way. Magic or not, he was no man’s pawn. And if the world was changing, he didn’t plan to be left behind. He'd always clawed his way to the top of the food chain. That wouldn't stop now.
He leaned back again, head thudding gently against the concrete wall behind him. Leg burning. Mouth dry. Crew alive. And two strangers now tangled in his world. He could already smell the blood in the water.
* kуколка = Little Doll
There is nothing false in the words of demons