05-27-2025, 10:13 PM
His calf was numb. Not just aching, but numb, like something cold had spread under the skin, slowly poisoning the muscle. The bite burned at first, then dulled. Now he could barely flex the foot. He knew that wasn’t normal. Whatever that thing had in its mouth, it wasn’t just teeth.
Chains clinked as he shifted his weight, shoulder muscles flexing with every pull. It had been gone for minutes now, curled up in its filthy roost above like a fat snake in a sauna, but he hadn’t stopped trying. Sweat poured down his face. Not from fear, never fear, but from the heat radiating from the old boiler and vents that hissed behind him. The whole place was an oven. His skin stuck to the wall behind him. The blood in his sock had dried stiff. And still he strained against the chains.
Get loose. Get even.
Then something happened. A crash of shattering glass.
Zholdin flinched, head jerking toward the sound, and then stared.
Two figures had appeared in the firelit gloom. Not his men. Not gopniks. Outsiders. One of them, tall and expressionless, moved with a bizarre level of calm for the situation. He was already inside the light, already doing something… not with tools, but with the air itself. Zholdin didn’t understand it. Didn’t need to. All that mattered was the Dreyken was suddenly screaming. Lifted from its filthy corner, limbs pinned mid-air like a pig strung for slaughter. Zholdin’s teeth bared in something like a grin.
Then the stranger was in front of him, picking the lock like a professional. Zholdin’s arms dropped, pain screaming through the joints as blood rushed back into his muscles. A second later, a gun was pressed into his hand and orders issued. That was all he needed to hear.
Zholdin staggered once, planting his numb leg carefully. He looked past the man, beyond the ring of his own crew, and toward the thrashing creature, still straining in its invisible bonds, hissing like steam under pressure. He stepped forward slowly, each movement cautious and deliberate. The fire cracked beside him, casting his shadow tall against the cracked walls. Every step was accompanied by the sound of chains clinking from behind: his men still bound, still breathing, some barely aware of what was happening.
Zholdin’s grip on the pistol tightened. But he didn’t raise it—not yet. He approached the old control booth slowly, eyes narrowing. The Dreyken’s naked skin was blushed with color and shimmered with sweat. It was straining, writhing, but bound. For now.
Zholdin stepped inside the booth. The stench hit him like a wall: blood, mildew, rot, and whatever else the thing had been secreting in its corner. He moved past the creature and toward a row of old drawers below the scorched console. He yanked one open.
Nothing.
Another.
Rust flakes, crushed fuses. He didn’t know what he sought, only that he’d know it when he saw it.
A third drawer revealed something useful: a pair of small, corroded pliers. Still intact. Still usable.
He turned and walked back to the creature, holding them up.
“Oh, you’ll love this,” he sneered.
He circled around like a shark examining its prey, and approached its face just out of reach of the twisting mouth, still flaring and snapping in rage. With a snarl, Zholdin suddenly grabbed its jaw in one hand and wedged the pliers into its mouth with the other. With a sharp click, he clamped down on one of the smaller teeth lining the creature’s upper jaw.
The Dreyken let out a strangled, high-pitched shriek.
“Shut your fucking whining,” Zholdin growled, “I’m not even halfway in yet.”
With a sharp jerk, he wrenched the tooth free. It made a soft, wet pop as it came loose. He held it up to the light. Clear at the root, pale and curved like a fishhook. Obscene. Grotesque. Unlike anything he'd ever seen before.
“Interesting,” he muttered. “This’ll make a fine centerpiece. Gold chain, polished bone. You’ll hang from my neck like a trophy, you son of a bitch, but first, I want a bigger one.”
He dug the pliers in again.
Another tooth.
Another scream.
He could feel the power shift. The thing, once towering and cruel, was now his. It was a captured animal, and he, Zholdin, son of Gregor Petrovich—was the hunter, the carver, the man who finished what others were too weak to start.
He straightened again, pliers still in hand.
Then he looked at the pistol in his other. A decent model. Heavy. Clean. It would do the job. But… He stared into the Dreyken’s black, alien eyes, watched it twitch and snarl in its bonds.
Shooting it in the face would be satisfying, sure. But it would ruin the skull. And that was a waste. He tilted his head, calculating.
“No, no,” he whispered. “You’re going on my wall.” His voice was rough and cruel. Almost fond.
“You’re going to be taxidermied, you sick little goblin. Skull lacquered, fangs intact. I’ll hang you between the Siberian bear and the dagestan wolf. Everyone will ask me what the hell you were.” He smirked. “And I’ll say: ‘Something that screeched like a banshee when I killed with my own hands.’”
Then he really went to work.
When he turned away, the body was limp in its invisible bonds and its blood covered Zholdin’s hands up to the wrist. He caught the eye of the two strangers, but it was the man whom he approached first. “Well you're a helpful one aren't you. Who the fuck are you?"
Chains clinked as he shifted his weight, shoulder muscles flexing with every pull. It had been gone for minutes now, curled up in its filthy roost above like a fat snake in a sauna, but he hadn’t stopped trying. Sweat poured down his face. Not from fear, never fear, but from the heat radiating from the old boiler and vents that hissed behind him. The whole place was an oven. His skin stuck to the wall behind him. The blood in his sock had dried stiff. And still he strained against the chains.
Get loose. Get even.
Then something happened. A crash of shattering glass.
Zholdin flinched, head jerking toward the sound, and then stared.
Two figures had appeared in the firelit gloom. Not his men. Not gopniks. Outsiders. One of them, tall and expressionless, moved with a bizarre level of calm for the situation. He was already inside the light, already doing something… not with tools, but with the air itself. Zholdin didn’t understand it. Didn’t need to. All that mattered was the Dreyken was suddenly screaming. Lifted from its filthy corner, limbs pinned mid-air like a pig strung for slaughter. Zholdin’s teeth bared in something like a grin.
Then the stranger was in front of him, picking the lock like a professional. Zholdin’s arms dropped, pain screaming through the joints as blood rushed back into his muscles. A second later, a gun was pressed into his hand and orders issued. That was all he needed to hear.
Zholdin staggered once, planting his numb leg carefully. He looked past the man, beyond the ring of his own crew, and toward the thrashing creature, still straining in its invisible bonds, hissing like steam under pressure. He stepped forward slowly, each movement cautious and deliberate. The fire cracked beside him, casting his shadow tall against the cracked walls. Every step was accompanied by the sound of chains clinking from behind: his men still bound, still breathing, some barely aware of what was happening.
Zholdin’s grip on the pistol tightened. But he didn’t raise it—not yet. He approached the old control booth slowly, eyes narrowing. The Dreyken’s naked skin was blushed with color and shimmered with sweat. It was straining, writhing, but bound. For now.
Zholdin stepped inside the booth. The stench hit him like a wall: blood, mildew, rot, and whatever else the thing had been secreting in its corner. He moved past the creature and toward a row of old drawers below the scorched console. He yanked one open.
Nothing.
Another.
Rust flakes, crushed fuses. He didn’t know what he sought, only that he’d know it when he saw it.
A third drawer revealed something useful: a pair of small, corroded pliers. Still intact. Still usable.
He turned and walked back to the creature, holding them up.
“Oh, you’ll love this,” he sneered.
He circled around like a shark examining its prey, and approached its face just out of reach of the twisting mouth, still flaring and snapping in rage. With a snarl, Zholdin suddenly grabbed its jaw in one hand and wedged the pliers into its mouth with the other. With a sharp click, he clamped down on one of the smaller teeth lining the creature’s upper jaw.
The Dreyken let out a strangled, high-pitched shriek.
“Shut your fucking whining,” Zholdin growled, “I’m not even halfway in yet.”
With a sharp jerk, he wrenched the tooth free. It made a soft, wet pop as it came loose. He held it up to the light. Clear at the root, pale and curved like a fishhook. Obscene. Grotesque. Unlike anything he'd ever seen before.
“Interesting,” he muttered. “This’ll make a fine centerpiece. Gold chain, polished bone. You’ll hang from my neck like a trophy, you son of a bitch, but first, I want a bigger one.”
He dug the pliers in again.
Another tooth.
Another scream.
He could feel the power shift. The thing, once towering and cruel, was now his. It was a captured animal, and he, Zholdin, son of Gregor Petrovich—was the hunter, the carver, the man who finished what others were too weak to start.
He straightened again, pliers still in hand.
Then he looked at the pistol in his other. A decent model. Heavy. Clean. It would do the job. But… He stared into the Dreyken’s black, alien eyes, watched it twitch and snarl in its bonds.
Shooting it in the face would be satisfying, sure. But it would ruin the skull. And that was a waste. He tilted his head, calculating.
“No, no,” he whispered. “You’re going on my wall.” His voice was rough and cruel. Almost fond.
“You’re going to be taxidermied, you sick little goblin. Skull lacquered, fangs intact. I’ll hang you between the Siberian bear and the dagestan wolf. Everyone will ask me what the hell you were.” He smirked. “And I’ll say: ‘Something that screeched like a banshee when I killed with my own hands.’”
Then he really went to work.
When he turned away, the body was limp in its invisible bonds and its blood covered Zholdin’s hands up to the wrist. He caught the eye of the two strangers, but it was the man whom he approached first. “Well you're a helpful one aren't you. Who the fuck are you?"
There is nothing false in the words of demons