Radio Silence (Abandoned industrial district)

[Giovanni]

Giovanni watched as the victim approached the dreykan with an amount of glee. His lip curled slightly as he searched through the drawers, and even if he didn’t actually smile, Giovanni felt a wave of satisfaction as the man went to work on the dreykan.

Chaos - he had awakened this. With no more than a click of lockpick. Giovanni didn’t look away as he worked. He didn’t revel in the violence. He just watched it happen. The man was a hunter. Not an actual sportsman by the look of it. He was a trophy hunter. The kill was for nothing more than something he could put on his wall. The thought of it hadn’t even registered in the man’s mind that even if someone deserved a trophy - it wasn’t him.

Then he approached Giovanni, a question of who he was coming to the man’s lips. Giovanni looked at him, his eyes hard as steel and calculating. Giovanni assessed, looking at the man’s hands, covered in dreykan blood. Then Giovanni released the weaves holding the creature in the air and fell to the ground with a wet splat.

”Me,” Giovanni said, a smirk forming at the corner of his lips. ”Im just a fucking Boy Scout.”

Giovanni turned around, completely intent on leaving. Giovanni made his decisions in the moment and this one was done. He got closer to the woman and looked at her. He stopped. The hardness in his eyes softened then, the feeling that he had when she had grabbed his coat returned.

And he flinched.

It was an odd feeling. The satisfaction of the chaos was gone replaced by…what? Suddenly he felt like he had been chastised - as if he was a child who hadn’t finished his chores. Giovanni looked at her for a moment, confusion on his face before he turned back and began to remove the bonds on the other gopniks.

[Grym]

Grym had known fear. Controlled it. Weaponized it. But nothing in her years of hunting prepared her for what happened next.

One moment, he was calm—an observer, silent and unreadable. The next, the glass of the control booth exploded in a violent cascade, and the Dreyken shrieked as invisible hands snatched it from its nest of warmth and shadows. Air itself wrapped around the creature’s throat and limbs, pulling it aloft like a marionette. Giovanni stood beneath it, as serene as a statue, conjuring fire with a thought.

The realization struck her cold: He was channeling. A sick weight settled in her gut. She hadn’t even sensed it. Not once during the time they’d walked side by side. She’d let him in, trusted his presence, his silence. And all the while, he’d been hiding a weapon more dangerous than anything they’d faced tonight. A channeler, cloaked and steady, calm as a corpse.

Her body remained still, every muscle coiled in tension, but inside, her thoughts roiled. She had walked beside him, trusted him, and he’d never once let on. It wasn’t the power itself that disturbed her. It was the lie of his calm. Regarding the Russian, she had expected vengeance. Rage, even. A shot to the head. A clean kill. What she saw instead rooted her to the floor like ice.

The creature wasn't simply killed, the Russian enjoyed it. He stalked the control booth like a butcher choosing the right blade, rummaging through drawers until he found what he was looking for: a pair of rusted pliers. Then, with the same calm as the stranger, but with none of the restraint, he began pulling the Dreyken’s teeth one by one, savoring every sound, every twitch of pain. He spoke to it as he worked, grinning as if he were making art. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t necessary. It was cruelty, pure and gleaming.

Grym stood in silence and watched. She made herself watch. The Dreyken was a monster—yes. It had stalked its prey, fed on their blood, planned to keep them as a larder for weeks. But even for something like this, she believed in a clean death. A bullet. A blade. Over and done. This wasn’t just killing it. He was feeding something else; something inside himself.

When it was over and the Dreyken hit the floor with a wet thud, Grym faced them both. She didn't speak. She didn’t have to. Her gaze said everything. Disappointment. Disgust. A quiet condemnation.

Not because the Power was used, but because he had handed the kill over to him. A man who would treat a living creature, even a monstrous one, like a trophy to be mounted, its pain part of the sport. She saw understanding flash in Giovanni’s expression, followed by something uncertain, like guilt. He looked away.

The Dreyken was dead. That mattered. But Grym pushed the emotions down. No time for lectures. No time for fights. She stepped into the heat of the chamber and made her way to the others. The men were still bound, sagging in their chains, faces drawn, eyes unfocused. One moaned, another coughed, barely conscious.

She moved fast, efficient, drawing her knife and slicing bonds. Chains rattled to the floor. Some of the zip ties had cut into flesh, leaving red welts or bruises. She spoke quietly when she had to, checking pulses, rolling men onto their feet when they could stand. Alistair stirred under her hand and met her gaze. She gave him a nod, brief and calm.

“No talking yet,” she murmured. “Just breathe.”

Behind her, the Russian paced like a lion in his cage, bloody pliers still in hand, wearing his satisfaction like a second skin. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to see his pride. There were still men to free. Still work to be done.

She moved forward.

[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.

[Giovanni]

[[OoC: Since this started quite a bit before I posted this thread, Aaliyah hasn't quite snitched on Giovanni yet]]

He had earned a favor - from the mafia. Giovanni knew that it was a serious one too.  The debt would be repaid, no strings attached.  That's how it worked.  It wasn't a bad place to be in. But he spoke not a word to Zholdin as he gathered his crew and began to leave, his prize in hand. Giovanni watched the crew leave in silence before turning to face the woman.

The chaos within him was still shrouded. Giovanni could feel it, but it had little hold over him now. He narrowed his eyes at her, calculating. She had been disgusted. Giovanni didn't know if it was him, Zholdin, or both. What the hell did you do to me? Giovanni wondered. His gaze lingered for a bit, before he turned to face the corpse of the dreykan, now headless.

Giovanni walked towards it, and knelt down, before summoning his god-powers and light the corpse aflame.  He didn't know why he did it, it seemed right.  Maybe a penance for handing the gun to Zholdin. It didn't matter. Nothing really did.

When he stood back up, he looked at her again, gave a brief smirk that didn't reach his eyes. It wasn't sadness, anger, or anything else.  Just a numbness without the chaos. It had been there so long, and now it was gone. Part of him liked it and felt free for the first time in months. Mostly he hated it, but he wanted to understand it. Though he doubted he ever would.  Like everything else, this didn't matter.

"Shall we go, little Remnant?" he asked her, but didn't really wait for an answer.  He walked past her, close enough for her to grab.  He might feel numb, but he wasn't afraid of an Atharim. The power screamed within him.  It was the closest thing to the chaos he could feel. It wasn't a good idea to keep it on always.  That made him detectable, but for now, it could possibly fill the hole.

[Zholdin Gregorovich]

The cars were still waiting for them at the petrol station. Dusty in the dark, recognized by the vagrants that ruled the industrial outskirts and left undisturbed. Two vehicles, plus the wreckage of the night, loaded back into their seats bloodied, sore, alive.

Zholdin had driven one himself, calf stiff and twitching with every press of the pedal. He ignored it. When he asked the two outsiders if they wanted to come back with them, the woman still unnamed, sharp-eyed, and quiet gave a brief, icy response but only after the boy scout.

The Dreyken’s severed head sat inside a duffel bag in the trunk, seeping its foul warmth into the nylon. His left leg pulsed with growing numbness, the venom or whatever it was crawling inch by inch toward the back of his knee.

When they arrived, it wasn’t to some mafia safehouse or elaborate estate. It was to Red Star Combat Sports Club.

To the unknowing public, Red Star was a high-end facility—state-of-the-art MMA training, fight nights, luxury fitness rooms tailored for elite clientele. Even on site medical care when things got out of control. But Zholdin didn’t walk in through the front.

He parked at the rear of the building, and the crew followed, quiet and limping, through the gated receiving dock where cameras registered his face and watching eyes knew better than to think twice. He approached a security door and punched in an elaborate code with blood-crusted knuckles. The lock buzzed and released.

They entered down a back corridor that smelled of rubber mats, sweat, and bleach. A few lights remained on, glowing dull red like night vision across the empty ring spaces. The buzz of the day was gone, but the place still throbbed with potential energy. Like a sleeping lion.

This was his turf. Zholdin didn’t advertise his ownership. Officially, it belonged to a shell corp, but everyone who mattered knew who ran Red Star.

Waiting in the rear medical suite, a private space tucked behind the locker rooms and sparring mats was a field doctor Zholdin trusted with his life. Ex-military. Went by “Doc Semyon.” Square jaw, short hair, eyes that didn’t blink even when covered in blood. No questions, just efficiency and expertise.

Standing beside him was Yelena, a nurse who could stop traffic just by glancing over her shoulder. Tight scrubs, platinum hair twisted up tight and legs that had once gotten a diplomat fired.

As the crew stumbled in, sweat-soaked and half-drained, Yelena moved immediately toward Zholdin. Concern filled her face, which only made it more irritating.

“Come this way, sir,” she said, reaching for him.

Zholdin shook his head and pointed over her shoulder. “Fuck off.” Mikov, Limon, Alistair, Grisha all of them looked worse than him. Torn sleeves, bruised faces, dried blood and trembling hands. Whatever anyone said, Zholdin always took care of his crew.

Yelena hesitated, eyes still locked on him like she’d rather play nurse in private, but she obeyed.

“Start with Mikov,” Zholdin barked. “He’s breathing like a cracked pipe. Fucking driving me insane.”

Mikov gave a faint groan as he dropped into one of the padded benches. “Don’t let her near me. Bitch's got that look.”

“What look?” Limon asked.

“That knife-happy look,” Mikov muttered, wincing as Yelena rolled up his sleeve and snapped on gloves. Meanwhile, Semyon was similarly making the rounds.

Zholdin smirked and dropped into a metal chair in the corner, extending his bad leg.

The pain was deeper now, and the swelling had turned his calf into a throbbing knot, but he kept his jaw tight. The bite could wait.

He turned his eyes toward their guests, watching.

The two of them had come just as he expected, but the woman only because the Boy Scout had agreed. Interesting. Very interesting.

They stood near the edge of the treatment area, silent. Observing.

Zholdin didn’t press them. Not yet.

Doc Semyon moved between stations like a ghost, checking vitals, issuing curt orders. Alistair refused assistance at first until he tried to move his arm and swore through gritted teeth.

“Serves you right,” Zholdin muttered.

“I fought that thing off longer than you,” the American grunted.

Zholdin’s smirk widened. “Sure. And I’m the Pope’s favorite altar boy!” Laughs followed. Weak ones anyway.

Eventually, the room settled into the rhythm of recovery. Cuts were cleaned. Bandages wrapped. Injections given. Bruised pride nursed alongside flesh wounds. Zholdin watched it all, face unreadable. His crew would live. That mattered more than how they felt.

As for the head in the bag, well, it would keep.

And now that he had seen what the Boy Scout could do… and the woman’s cold restraint… He had decisions to make.


((Alistair moved with permission. Grym and Giovanni came along with permission.))

[Giovanni]

Giovanni accepted Zholdin’s offer. Truth be told, he didn’t know why. He cared little about Zholdin’s repayment for his assistance. He cared even less about the rest of the gang’s recovery. He had helped free them and only had an inkling of why.

It was her. The silent and stoic woman with them. Even now, the chaos was silent within him. He found it both comforting and nerve wracking at the same time. She had decided to come with them too, but only after Giovanni had said he would. Why? Did the Atharim intend to keep him in sight for now, determining whether or not she would go through were her mandate to kill reborn gods? Or was she perhaps as intrigued by him as he was of her. Besides the lack of chaos in his head, Giovanni expected there was more to the woman that intrigued him. She was a rather attractive woman, but Giovanni didn’t think it was that. He had very little interest in the pleasures of the flesh. Gods were above such things, or so he thought. It had been a long time.

Giovanni leaned against a wall, watching as a nurse and doctor began to work on the crew. Zholdin forced them to work on the worst hurt first. That surprised Giovanni. He had expected the man to be selfish, and maybe he was, but there was probably some mafia code that he was following. They looked to be in some sort of fight club. It certainly seemed to be high class. It had to be a nice front for money laundering or something. Giovanni didn’t know. He never really acclimated himself to Moscow before he left for Egypt.

Giovanni pulled out his wallet then, seeing he had a message from Omar. The message was vague, but Giovanni understood it to mean he had met with the Archivist and Bode’s representative. The artifact was what she said it was. Giovanni smirked as he went to check on the bidding of the artifact only to find the page gone. Odd…why….

Then it came to him. If it was a piece of m’Antinomian, and the Archivist had said it was, it was likely the hacker cult wasn’t happy with the theft of one of their artifacts. The only logical assumption was that the hacker cult had taken the site down. They certainly would have the skills to do so. It also probably meant they were “watching” him too. Maybe not enough to do anything yet, but they were likely tracking him.

Giovanni sent back one word. Echelon and then put his wallet away. Giovanni wouldn’t receive a response. Omar would destroy his wallet as Giovanni would later. They would meet in person where after Omar procured new devices for them. Their operation was on hold for the time being.

Zholdin was watching them, probably determining how best he could use the oddities in his midst. Giovanni met his gaze. He had no idea what for certain Zholdin would want from him, but Giovanni had no desire to join the mafia. Still he had a favor. He’d hold that in his bag for now.

[Grym]

Grym didn’t move far. She just watched, mostly watched the channeler.

She was sworn to hunt men like him. Monsters. Channelers. Gods who defied their place.

But she’d also seen the way he’d moved through that lair. Not like a man high on power. Not like Zholdin. Giovanni hadn’t reveled in the pain. He hadn’t sought glory. He just acted. And when it was over, he stepped back like it meant nothing.

That, somehow, was more dangerous.

Her gaze flicked to Zholdin next. He lounged like a king among bloodied soldiers, his leg stretched out, a duffel bag heavy at his side. The Dreyken’s head. Grym’s stomach tightened.

She had rules. Strict ones. Born of necessity, burned into her by tradition and survival. Monsters died, and the evidence disappeared. You didn’t parade it around. You didn’t take teeth for necklaces or mount heads on your walls. You buried the horror with the corpse, or you risked everything.

And that crew had hunted the thing. No training. No understanding. Just vodka, testosterone, and big guns. They hadn’t even known what it was. They thought it was a bear. Children playing soldier in the dark. Her lips pressed into a tight line. She wanted to tear into them. Shake them by the shoulders. Ask them if they knew what would’ve happened if she hadn’t followed. If Giovanni hadn’t acted. If Zholdin hadn’t... well… been the beast they needed to survive a worse one. Instead, she said nothing.

She stayed in the corner of the recovery room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the space. The duffel bag was near Zholdin’s chair, just slightly behind him. He hadn’t taken it far. Maybe for show. Maybe because he didn’t trust anyone else with it.

She memorized the bag. The color of the canvas. The type of zipper. The bottom corner was already darkening with leaked blood. Eventually, they’d sleep. Or drink. Or look away. And when he does… That head couldn’t leave this place. Not in one piece. The Atharim wouldn’t tolerate it. She wouldn’t.

Grym exhaled slowly, then finally stepped forward, her boots quiet against the mat-covered floor. Zholdin noticed her approach. Of course he did. His eyes were calculating. Amused. Expectant. She didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t smile.

“Call me Grym,” she said simply. No last name. Then she glanced at the duffel bag behind him. “I'll be taking that head with me,” she said coolly. “If you want a trophy, hunt lions on safari like a normal person.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her eyes swept over the rest of the room, bodies being patched, jokes murmured through cracked lips, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Everyone was alive. Barely. She shook her head once.

“Next time you want to play,” she muttered, “try not to be so fucking stupid about it.”

And with that, she went to stand near Giovanni, already plotting how she might separate man from monster before the sun came up.

[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

[Giovanni]

Giovanni watched everything unfold and admired the woman, Grym, for the sheer courage it took to talk shit to the gopnik leader in the middle of his own turf. Then again, courage and stupidity were two sides of the same coin. The difference was whether or not you ended up dead or not. Zholdin responded with a threat. That was hardly surprising.

Still Giovanni stayed silent, watching as the doctor came in and gave his prognosis. Zholdin would be fine with time. At the very least, Zholdin took care of those under him. That was a decent enough leadership quality. There was a strange sense of honor among mafiosos. In Giovanni's line of thievery, honor among thieves was a lie, but here there was some warped sense of family.

Giovanni didn't look up at the gopnik until Zholdin spoke directly to him. But it was the question that caused the change in Giovanni's expression as the corners of his lips turned up into a light smirk. The chaos within him had been silent, as it had been since he had started following the woman into the abandoned building after the gang, but now, tired of being silent, it began to stir within him. Giovanni had seen the brutality of the gopnik leader. He had seen the man give in to what Giovanni had kept hidden for so long and now expressed his own desire to have power of his own. Not a subordinate who could do magic. He wanted it for himself. A man like Zholdin could be a lot of fun.

"Dante," Giovanni said, giving them a name as he stood and began to walk forward. "You would be wise not to underestimate Grym." Giovanni knew what she was. She was by no means an old woman, but she was older, and you didn't live long as a monster and god hunter unless you were very skilled.

At the same time, Grym knew what he was, and she hadn't given into her mandate to kill him. That could mean something - it was a tidbit of information he stashed away in case he needed it. Still part of him wondered if she should have.

"It's not something anyone can learn. You have to have the ability to do it."

Giovanni stopped walking finding himself halfway between Grym and Zholdin. He turned his head slightly, almost as if to look over his shoulder. He stood here between two people and two ideals - Chaos and Order - Caos and Ordine made flesh. There had been a time when he had followed order, but it had lost. Giovanni had given into the chaos, and now - it had been muted by the woman. But that wasn't who he was. Not anymore...he was something more...something...

Giovanni began to move again toward Zholdin and he seized his power. It roared through him like a blazing inferno. "If you can, you will use it. You won't have a choice. Then you must learn to control it and if you don't, you die."

Giovanni kept moving passing by Zholdin as he continued his monologue, his fingers lightly brushing Zholdin's shoulders as he did."Whether you can or not, I do not know," Giovanni walked behind Zholdin, his fingers trailing along Zholdin's shoulders to his neck and back across the opposite shoulder. "But I'm sure we can find out." Giovanni's hand dropped to his side and stayed behind Zholdin. "Tell me Zholdin Gregorovich, would you like to find out if you can wield the power of gods?"

[Grym]

She didn’t move.

As Dante, if that was even his real name, strode forward, channeling power like a serpent shedding its skin, Grym kept her back pressed against the far wall. Her arms remained crossed, but tension had crept into her shoulders and locked her jaw. Every instinct screamed to move. To draw a knife. To react.
But she didn’t.

Because doing so in this room, surrounded by injured men and a volatile mafioso who’d just flirted with cutting her face off for decoration, would be suicide.

The moment Giovanni spoke Zholdin’s name with that almost lazy smile and touched him, Grym’s stomach turned. Not from jealousy, not even from fear, but from the grim, ancient weight of knowing exactly what she was seeing.

This was channeling the godpower. Pure and unmistakable. She’d watched gods before. Hunted them. Killed one. Barely. Then, a name came to mind.

Nora.

That impossible girl, all fire and stubbornness. She was a channeler too. Grym had known for months. Had covered for her. Trained her, protected her, loved her like a daughter.

She would never harm Nora.

So why did she want to put a bullet through Dante’s skull?

Her mouth was dry. The room felt too warm. It wasn’t just the heat from the club, or the stink of blood and sweaty gopniks. It was him, walking between Zholdin and her like a living fault line. Like a man who could split the earth if he willed it.

She didn’t trust him. She didn’t understand him. But most terrifying of all— She didn’t hate him. That was the problem. Hatred was easy. It was clean. The Atharim trained for it. But now? Grym found herself watching the way his hand brushed Zholdin’s shoulder, the way his voice dropped just enough to sound menacing, and all she could think was:

You are going to be a problem.

The chaos curled off him like smoke. It clung to the air, coiled behind his words, and in the heat of the moment, Zholdin didn’t even flinch. The mafia boss leaned back like a man considering a new kind of weapon.

A power like that loose in the world terrified her. But she couldn’t stop it. Not now. Not alone. She swallowed hard and made her decision.

She would stay close. Watch them both. Dante had offered his name, and with that, a crack in the wall. Names were always the beginning of connection. Intimacy possibly. He'd never given an inkling of the typical reactions of other men, but his swagger told her all she needed to know. He was ego wrapped in barbed wire. Touch him, and you risk getting cut. Somewhere under the skin was vulnerability, and she would find it. And when the time came, take her only shot, or die trying.

Maybe.

But her heart twisted when she thought of Nora. Would she feel it? Would she know?

The guilt flared, hot and acidic, but Grym crushed it down like she always did.

The mission came first. The world had rules. The moment you let sentiment cloud them, you opened the door to monsters.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.