01-12-2025, 09:03 PM
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.
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.
There is nothing false in the words of demons