Radio Silence (Abandoned industrial district)

[Grym]

For the past few months, Grym had been living in the shadows, laying low and passing the time much like she was doing now. She sat inside the Monero, a car with a long history, currently working on reupholstering the worn seats. The scent of old leather and motor oil surrounded her as she worked, the familiar smell of her beloved car. The vehicle was her constant companion, and she had poured countless hours into rebuilding it over the years. As she stitched and hammered, she couldn't help but think that one day she would be buried in this very car, perhaps going out in a blaze of glory or sinking to the depths of a lake during a daring chase or run.

She navigated through the cluttered warehouse, dodging boxes and tools scattered on the floor. At her workstation, an old laptop sat next to a pile of leather scraps. She had to special order the leather for her project and have it delivered to a nondescript pick-up address. Grym didn't have an official residence, so she avoided receiving mail. After all, with no surname to use, who would know where to send it?

It seemed the package was ready, so she wiped off her hands with some mineral spirits to loosen the grease under her nails and prepared to go. A thought crossed her mind. Almost no Atharim crossed her path and few left her messages. She was pretty much a lone wolf in Prague, but in Moscow, she knew few in the ranks anyway. Just as she suspected, there were no messages. It was radio silence out there.

She shrugged on the leather jacket and drove to the city. The warehouse was outside the Third Ring Road in a defunct industrial district. There were no residential areas, and most of the buildings were gated, locked, chained, and boarded up tight. Most didn't have electricity, and she only did because of old wiring still powering the bone black incinerators. It made for an eerie drive back, but Grym liked the solitude. She had to fend off homeless or vagrants once in a while, but word spread to avoid her building eventually. At this point, she only had the stray monster to worry about. Except right now, she realized she had absolutely nothing to eat for dinner.

Sighing, she rerouted toward the nearest market. Finally, she reached her destination - a small corner shop with its bright neon sign flickering in the cold winter air. As she parked her car, she noticed a group of gopniks huddled together, their puffed up coats and hoodies shielding them from the biting cold. It seemed they had been there for a while, but unless they made themselves her business, she didn’t care about theirs. She only spared them a brief glance before diving into the shop, eager to find something warm and filling to appease her grumbling stomach.

[Giovanni]

It had been a long time since Giovanni had been in Moscow. It felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, Giovanni had been a different person back then. Back then, he had only been discovering what he was. Now...well...Giovanni wasn't quite sure he knew fully who he was yet. Sometimes, those realizations took time, but he knew that he was more than most. A god yes, but to what extent, he was beginning to yet realize.

Giovanni had forsaken the higher class hotel for something a little farther out of the way. For the most part, Giovanni sought solitude. He had plans, plans that had yet to come to fruition. More needed to be done. Then there was that piece of m’Antinomian he was having Omar look into. Omar had not been happy with that assignment, but he accepted it because it was his job to say yes.

Unfortunately, gods still needed to eat, and that is what brought Giovanni out into the cold. Africa had made him more suited to warmer climes than he was now in and he longed to go back to his kingdom. In time he would. He was wearing typical winter wear, but was armed as well. While he was here, he had to hold back on using his god powers. It was not yet time to draw attention to himself. He passed the gopniks, not looking at them. They seemed content to leave him be, and he entered the market. There seemed to be only one other patron at this market tonight - a woman. He was glad for that. Less people were better. He began to browse the shelves, not really even sure what he wanted.

[Grym]

The shop was cramped, its dim lighting casting a faint yellow haze over shelves lined with dusty, boxed goods. The air smelled faintly of stale spices and damp cardboard. Grym moved methodically, gathering her usuals—canned fish, rye crackers, instant coffee—keeping her head down but her senses sharp.

Her gaze slid to the window as she approached the register. The gopniks outside lingered near the graffiti-streaked wall, their postures loose, almost bored. But she knew better. That kind of stillness wasn’t harmless. It was a readiness, a predator's patience. Still, they hadn’t made a move yet.

What tightened her grip on the jar of pickles in her hand wasn’t the gang outside—it was the man a few aisles over. He moved like smoke, his footsteps soft against the scuffed linoleum. It’s not that he was pretending to browse, but something about him made her pay attention.

He wore the kind of jacket that didn’t belong here—not too clean, not too shabby, but perfectly forgettable in a way that made Grym’s instincts scream. Everything about him was too precise: the way his boots pointed forward like he was ready to pivot, the casual angle of his head that let her track his reflection in the freezer doors.

Dangerous, her gut whispered. More dangerous than the gopniks out there. 

She kept walking, her expression calm, as she approached the register.

[Giovanni]

Giovanni Pickens few supplies. Bread, peanut butter, canned meat, cans of soup. Anything for a quick  meal. He was aware of the woman. And equally aware that she was watching him and the gopniks outside. He could see she was older now. Maybe in her 40s, but she noticed things. She had the air of a predator.

Giovanni looked towards the gopniks outside. They stood, waiting, with the general air of wanting to cause trouble. Giovanni wondered if this woman was their target and he wondered if they would survive the encounter. She had the air of a fighter - and not a common thug like the gopniks were, who had likely chosen their corner for this very reason.

The woman moved towards the register to pay for her goods, Giovanni browsed a little longer, but found little of interest. He had enough for now anyways. He began to move to the front of the store.

[Zholdin Gregorovich]

The car rumbled down the mostly empty road, its engine growling like a beast barely leashed. At the wheel, Zholdin gripped it with the ease of a man used to taming chaos. He wasn’t just driving the car—he was commanding it, leaning into every turn with the quiet confidence of someone who understood machines, men, and the unspoken rules of control.

He filled the silence with one of his stories, voice low and smooth, painting a vivid picture of Mikov’s panicked thrashing in a tank full of moray eels. “He screamed so loud,” Zholdin drawled, a glint in his eye as he glanced in the rearview mirror, “I swear the eels thought they were being fed.”

The whole car erupted, except for Mikov, who smirked faintly but kept his ruined face angled toward the window. The scars twisting his features into something jagged seemed to ripple under the passing streetlights. His silence spoke volumes: he’d heard this story too many times, and the memory still lingered like the sting of saltwater in a wound.

Beside him, Limon slapped his thigh, howling with laughter. “The way you tell it, boss, I’m starting to think you pushed him in on purpose!”

Zholdin arched a brow but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The truth—or the mystery of it—was his to keep, and that power was part of what made men like Limon follow him without question. 

Up front, Alistair, the American wrestler, sat like a granite statue, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t laughed, hadn’t even cracked a smile, but Zholdin wasn’t fazed. The man was new, after all—still testing the waters, gauging the hierarchy. Zholdin could feel him watching, measuring, but he wasn’t worried. He knew how to handle men like Alistair, just as he knew how to handle a car that wanted to veer off course.

The vehicle rolled to a stop at a petrol station on the outskirts of town, where four men loitered in the parking lot in a haze of cigarette smoke. Their chatter died as Zholdin’s car pulled in, the sound of the engine settling into an ominous purr.

Zholdin stepped out first, his movements unhurried. He didn’t need to assert himself with words or posturing; the weight of his presence did that for him. He adjusted the cuff of his leather coat, more out of habit than necessity, and let his eyes drift over the gopniks. He recognized them all—his father’s boys—but didn’t bother recalling their names. Names were for equals, and these men, slouched and edgy in their tracksuits and jackets, knew better than to assume familiarity.

When Mikov climbed out behind him, making a show of checking the pistol under his jacket, the tension thickened. The gopniks straightened like dogs scenting a predator in the air. Their bravado didn’t disappear—it never did with men like this—but it shrank, curled inward, like a flame under a steady hand.

Zholdin let the silence linger, enjoying it. Finally, he spoke. “You’ve been waiting long?” His voice was calm, almost conversational, but it carried enough weight to make one of the men stub out his cigarette without thinking.

“No, boss,” one of them answered quickly. “Just…passing the time.”

Zholdin nodded once, then gestured toward the car with a tilt of his head. “Let’s move, then. We’ve got work to do.”

None of them asked what kind of work.

Zholdin nodded at the group, his voice low but steady. “On foot from here.”

No one argued. Zholdin didn’t explain things; he didn’t need to. The rumors had been swirling for weeks—whispers about something wild, something not quite right, prowling the edges of the city. People said it was an animal, but the details changed with each telling. A wolf, some claimed, bigger than any wolf should be. Others swore it was a bear gone mad, its fur patchy, its teeth blackened. Whatever it was, it had been leaving carcasses behind in the industrial ruins, a grim breadcrumb trail that had finally drawn Zholdin’s attention.

He reached into the trunk of the car and pulled out a rifle. The gopniks exchanged wary glances but didn’t hesitate to fall in behind him as he started toward the shadows at the edge of the lot. The others followed.

[Alistair Bishop]

The car rumbled down the mostly empty road, its engine growling like a beast barely leashed. At the wheel, Zholdin gripped it with the ease of a man used to taming chaos. He wasn’t just driving the car—he was commanding it, leaning into every turn with the quiet confidence of someone who understood machines, men, and the unspoken rules of control.

He filled the silence with one of his stories, voice low and smooth, painting a vivid picture of Mikov’s panicked thrashing in a tank full of moray eels. “He screamed so loud,” Zholdin drawled, a glint in his eye as he glanced in the rearview mirror, “I swear the eels thought they were being fed.”

The whole car erupted, except for Mikov, who smirked faintly but kept his ruined face angled toward the window. The scars twisting his features into something jagged seemed to ripple under the passing streetlights. His silence spoke volumes: he’d heard this story too many times, and the memory still lingered like the sting of saltwater in a wound.

Beside him, Limon slapped his thigh, howling with laughter. “The way you tell it, boss, I’m starting to think you pushed him in on purpose!”

Zholdin arched a brow but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The truth—or the mystery of it—was his to keep, and that power was part of what made men like Limon follow him without question. 

Up front, Alistair, the American wrestler, sat like a granite statue, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t laughed, hadn’t even cracked a smile, but Zholdin wasn’t fazed. The man was new, after all—still testing the waters, gauging the hierarchy. Zholdin could feel him watching, measuring, but he wasn’t worried. He knew how to handle men like Alistair, just as he knew how to handle a car that wanted to veer off course.

The vehicle rolled to a stop at a petrol station on the outskirts of town, where four men loitered in the parking lot in a haze of cigarette smoke. Their chatter died as Zholdin’s car pulled in, the sound of the engine settling into an ominous purr.

Zholdin stepped out first, his movements unhurried. He didn’t need to assert himself with words or posturing; the weight of his presence did that for him. He adjusted the cuff of his leather coat, more out of habit than necessity, and let his eyes drift over the gopniks. He recognized them all—his father’s boys—but didn’t bother recalling their names. Names were for equals, and these men, slouched and edgy in their tracksuits and jackets, knew better than to assume familiarity.

When Mikov climbed out behind him, making a show of checking the pistol under his jacket, the tension thickened. The gopniks straightened like dogs scenting a predator in the air. Their bravado didn’t disappear—it never did with men like this—but it shrank, curled inward, like a flame under a steady hand.

Zholdin let the silence linger, enjoying it. Finally, he spoke. “You’ve been waiting long?” His voice was calm, almost conversational, but it carried enough weight to make one of the men stub out his cigarette without thinking.

“No, boss,” one of them answered quickly. “Just…passing the time.”

Zholdin nodded once, then gestured toward the car with a tilt of his head. “Let’s move, then. We’ve got work to do.”

None of them asked what kind of work.

Zholdin nodded at the group, his voice low but steady. “On foot from here.”

No one argued. Zholdin didn’t explain things; he didn’t need to. The rumors had been swirling for weeks—whispers about something wild, something not quite right, prowling the edges of the city. People said it was an animal, but the details changed with each telling. A wolf, some claimed, bigger than any wolf should be. Others swore it was a bear gone mad, its fur patchy, its teeth blackened. Whatever it was, it had been leaving carcasses behind in the industrial ruins, a grim breadcrumb trail that had finally drawn Zholdin’s attention.

He reached into the trunk of the car and pulled out a rifle. The gopniks exchanged wary glances but didn’t hesitate to fall in behind him as he started toward the shadows at the edge of the lot. The others followed.

Alistair stepped out of the car last, the cold air slicing through him like a blade. His boots crunched against the frost-covered gravel as he straightened, his sharp gaze sweeping over the group. The gopniks clustered around Zholdin like moths to a flame, rifles slung haphazardly over their shoulders. Their movements were tense, their postures trying too hard to project confidence. Alistair had seen their type before—men who talked big but crumbled when the real danger came.

He leaned casually against the car, arms crossed, his stance deliberately relaxed. Zholdin was at the trunk, pulling out a rifle with practiced ease. There was no urgency in his movements, no rush to explain what came next. The silence he left was heavy, calculated. The gopniks didn’t dare fill it with questions.

Alistair, however, wasn’t one to sit quietly and follow blindly.  “You sure this isn’t just a wild goose chase?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with skepticism. “All this for a bear with bad teeth?” 

The gopniks froze mid-motion, their eyes darting toward Zholdin, as if bracing for an explosion.

[Grym]

Grym tossed a handful of crumpled notes onto the counter and gathered her belongings, but her focus was already elsewhere. As she stepped toward the exit, the low rumble of an engine caught her ear. A car pulled into the petrol station, and out spilled four men who radiated trouble like heat off asphalt. Tracksuits and leather jackets, cigarettes perched in their mouths—they were mafia types, the kind of men who carried guns as casually as car keys.

Grym kept moving, pushing through the door without pause, though her gaze flicked back once, quick as a razor. She didn’t stop to stare—she’d seen enough of their kind to know they didn’t like being noticed. Besides, Grym wasn’t the sort to meddle. Someone could’ve dropped a gopnik in broad daylight right there on the forecourt, and she’d have stepped over the body without breaking stride. It wasn’t her job to get involved, and she’d long ago learned the price of doing so.

But this felt different.

They didn’t linger like most mafia types do, puffing smoke and spitting on the ground. Instead, the four from the car met up with those hanging in the parking lot and they took off on foot, heading straight into the shadows beyond the petrol station like men with a purpose. It wasn’t their confidence that bothered Grym—it was the absence of hesitation. There was something deliberate in their departure, something sharp-edged that made her frown.

She dumped her sack into the back of the Moreno, slamming the door harder than she needed to. For a moment, she just stood there, leaning against the car’s side, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. The night had its usual bite, but it wasn’t the cold making her feel uneasy. She couldn’t shake the itch crawling up the back of her neck, a sixth sense she’d learned to trust over the years. Something about this rubbed her raw, though she couldn’t quite pin it down.

She clicked her tongue and moved to the trunk, glancing over her shoulder out of habit. The lot was quiet now, save for the whine of the wind weaving through the broken remains of the industrial district. Nobody was watching, but Grym had the distinct feeling she wasn’t alone.

From the trunk, she pulled a pistol, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency before tucking it into her waistband. Next came the knife, which she strapped to her ankle with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Finally, her hand settled on the axe. Its worn handle fit comfortably in her grip, the weight familiar, reassuring. She hefted it briefly, then slung it into a back holster, its blade glinting faintly under the petrol station’s flickering lights.

If the mafia crew were hunting something, Grym wasn’t about to let them corner it alone.

She followed their path on foot, her steps light, quiet, deliberate. She kept her distance, trailing their shadows as they moved deeper into the abandoned ruins. Grym wasn’t sloppy—she stayed out of sight, always a corner or a rusted pillar away from being seen. They were loud enough, anyway, their boots crunching over glass and gravel, their voices carrying faintly in the empty night.

[Giovanni]

Giovanni watched with interest as the gang arrived in a vehicle and they all got out, grabbing weapons and collecting the gopniks for whatever trouble they were after that night. He was only slightly disappointed that the woman had not been their target; not because he had wanted them to harm her, but because he had wanted to see what she was capable of. The woman was intriguing.

Giovanni left his stuff on the counter and moved forward, caring little about his purchases. Food could wait, this was a one time shot. He looked and watched as the woman put her stuff into a vehicle - significantly less pretentious than the gang bangers, but certainly well taken care of. The door slammed louder than expected and she leaned against the vehicle in thought. Giovanni smiled. What had happened had unsettled the woman.

The woman moved with deliberate purpose shortly thereafter, she threw a glance behind her shoulder, but if she saw Giovanni, she didn't react to it. Opening her trunk, she began to load out; a gun, a knife, and of all things, an axe. Giovanni smirked. He had pegged her as a predator - a predator indeed. She then followed the gang bangers.

Giovanni seized his god power and followed, his senses sharpening in the dark night. He could avoid being seen if he wished. At this point he was far enough back from the gang bangers that they wouldn't see him. As he followed in her footsteps, he deliberatly allowed himself to be seen by her. It was not his intention to put her more on edge, or perhaps it was. There was no telling how she would read his actions. That in itself was a thrill. He also moved faster, gaining ground on her, his steps still silent and deliberate. For now he would remain behind her, the time was not yet ripe enough for his approach.