07-23-2025, 02:54 AM
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.))
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.))
There is nothing false in the words of demons