03-03-2026, 03:16 AM
Alistair stood under the shower longer than he needed to. Long after the water ran clear. Long after the blood and the factory grime and the smell of that thing had swirled down the drain.
He didn't move. Just stood there, palms flat against the tile, head bowed, hot water hammering the back of his neck. He was naked and the heat felt good on his body. It had been through a lot tonight.
What the hell did you just see, Bishop.
He'd been in some bad situations. Drug dens in Columbus. A cage fight gone wrong in Volgograd where a referee ended up missing three fingers. He'd been jumped in a parking garage in Ohio at nineteen and held his own against two men with a tire iron. He wasn't soft. He wasn't the type that flinched.
But that thing in the factory had taken men. Not killed them, taken them. Soundlessly. Without a fight, without a warning, without so much as a boot scuffing the floor. And then the chains. The firelight. The pale, hungry shape moving between them like it was choosing which glass to drink from first.
His jaw tightened.
He didn't have a word for what it was. Grym had apparently known, something she'd called it soft-voiced in the dark, like the name was from a textbook she'd memorized years ago. The Italian had thrown fire. Actual fire, out of nothing. And Zholdin had done something too, something Alistair couldn't name and didn't want to yet.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
He'd seen a lot in the eighteen months since landing in Moscow. He thought he had a decent working map of what the world was and wasn't. He'd been wrong.
Eventually the water ran cold and he got out.
He dressed in silence, pulling on a spare set of clothes someone had left folded on the bench, Zholdin's people, efficient and unasked. His shoulder ached where the chain had caught him when he'd thrown his weight trying to get loose. He flexed his hand and watched the knuckles pale and flush. Alive. That counted for something.
When he came out, the room had the loose, exhausted quality of men who'd survived something and weren't ready to talk about it yet. Someone had produced vodka. Mikov had it first. Grisha was staring at the floor. Limon looked like he might sleep sitting up.
Alistair pulled up a chair at the edge of the group, not quite inside the circle, not outside of it, and accepted the bottle when it came his way. He took one pull, set it down, and said nothing.
Zholdin watched him from across the room with those flat green eyes that never quite stopped calculating. Alistair met the look and held it for a beat, then let it go.
Whatever this crew was, whatever tonight was, it wasn't the Moscow he'd arrived in. That much was already clear.
He picked up the bottle again, took one more pull, and passed it along.
"Make it a double," he said, mostly to no one. "Whatever the hell that was, I need two of them."
He leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, and let the noise of the room wash over him.
He had some thinking to do.
[will find another thread to hop into or something else
]
He didn't move. Just stood there, palms flat against the tile, head bowed, hot water hammering the back of his neck. He was naked and the heat felt good on his body. It had been through a lot tonight.
What the hell did you just see, Bishop.
He'd been in some bad situations. Drug dens in Columbus. A cage fight gone wrong in Volgograd where a referee ended up missing three fingers. He'd been jumped in a parking garage in Ohio at nineteen and held his own against two men with a tire iron. He wasn't soft. He wasn't the type that flinched.
But that thing in the factory had taken men. Not killed them, taken them. Soundlessly. Without a fight, without a warning, without so much as a boot scuffing the floor. And then the chains. The firelight. The pale, hungry shape moving between them like it was choosing which glass to drink from first.
His jaw tightened.
He didn't have a word for what it was. Grym had apparently known, something she'd called it soft-voiced in the dark, like the name was from a textbook she'd memorized years ago. The Italian had thrown fire. Actual fire, out of nothing. And Zholdin had done something too, something Alistair couldn't name and didn't want to yet.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
He'd seen a lot in the eighteen months since landing in Moscow. He thought he had a decent working map of what the world was and wasn't. He'd been wrong.
Eventually the water ran cold and he got out.
He dressed in silence, pulling on a spare set of clothes someone had left folded on the bench, Zholdin's people, efficient and unasked. His shoulder ached where the chain had caught him when he'd thrown his weight trying to get loose. He flexed his hand and watched the knuckles pale and flush. Alive. That counted for something.
When he came out, the room had the loose, exhausted quality of men who'd survived something and weren't ready to talk about it yet. Someone had produced vodka. Mikov had it first. Grisha was staring at the floor. Limon looked like he might sleep sitting up.
Alistair pulled up a chair at the edge of the group, not quite inside the circle, not outside of it, and accepted the bottle when it came his way. He took one pull, set it down, and said nothing.
Zholdin watched him from across the room with those flat green eyes that never quite stopped calculating. Alistair met the look and held it for a beat, then let it go.
Whatever this crew was, whatever tonight was, it wasn't the Moscow he'd arrived in. That much was already clear.
He picked up the bottle again, took one more pull, and passed it along.
"Make it a double," he said, mostly to no one. "Whatever the hell that was, I need two of them."
He leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, and let the noise of the room wash over him.
He had some thinking to do.
[will find another thread to hop into or something else
]