Yesterday, 01:13 AM
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.
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.
‡‡ GRYM ‡‡