VIKTOR
The café crouched at the edge of the city like it had something to hide. It was wedged between a grimy laundromat and an auto shop that hadn't seen a working car in years. The sign above the door buzzed, one flickering light trying and failing to stay alive.
I stood across the street for a second, watching it like it might try to run. A couple of workers came out with paper cups, heads down. An old man shuffled past, eyes glued to the sidewalk. No one looked up. No one ever did.
I crossed over, boots crunching on gravel and snow. The cold hit harder here, like the wind knew you didn't belong. My leg ached with every step, but I didn't slow down. Pain was routine now—just another layer of noise.
Inside, the place smelled like scorched beans and cheap cleaning spray. The floor stuck a little beneath my boots. The booths were cracked, the kind of red that used to be vibrant, now just tired. In the back, by the window, someone raised a hand in a lazy wave.
Jarek.
I saw him instantly. He always dressed like he wanted to disappear—neutral jacket, forgettable face, hands resting easy on the table like they hadn't held a gun in years. But I knew better. There was always something off in his stillness, something sharp under the quiet.
I walked over, slid into the seat across from him. He gave me a long look, then laughed under his breath like I was some kind of joke only he got.
The seat was cold, the kind that sank under your weight and creaked like it had something to complain about. I didn't lean back. I just sat, hands on the table, watching him.
Jarek leaned forward with that fake warm grin that didn't reach his eyes. They were always the same—smiling mouths and dead eyes. I knew that type too well.
Then a waitress came over, young, maybe twenty. Her apron was stained and her ponytail sagged to one side like she'd given up on pretending. She didn't smile.
"What can I get you?" she asked, voice dull.
"Coffee," I said.
"Same," Jarek added, folding his hands neatly like we were just catching up.
She nodded and walked off without writing anything down. I watched her go. Not because I cared—just habit. You never knew who was watching. Who was wired. Who had a blade tucked in their sleeve.
I could feel Jarek staring at me. Like he wanted to say something clever but was letting the silence sit first. That was his style. He liked building his little scenes. I let him have it.
He exhaled finally, a short chuckle, then said, "You look like shit."
I didn't respond.
"Seriously. You've got that 'I-died-three-years-ago' look. Didn't think it could get worse but damn." He leaned in a little, voice low. "Still limping too. That leg's never gonna heal right, huh?"
I stayed still. My fingers tapped once against the table. He didn't stop.
"You were part of that black ops unit, yeah? Special squad—ghost team. Burned through more bodies than the morgue. Then boom—one bullet to the leg and they dumped you out like spoiled meat." He clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Cold world."
I looked at him. Just once. Flat and tired.
"Is this what you called me for?" I asked. "Or another job? A hit? Or a clean-up?"
He smirked. "Always straight to business with you."
Jarek chuckled under his breath, then reached down beside him and pulled out a battered black messenger bag. The zipper groaned as he dragged it open, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to add weight to the moment.
He slid a small thin folder across the table toward me.
The paper was creased at the corners, the flap bent from use. It didn't look special. None of them ever did. The real monsters came in the plainest wrapping.
The waitress came back before I could open it. Two chipped mugs hit the table, steam rising in lazy curls. She muttered something about refills and wandered off again like she wasn't even really there.
I stared down at the coffee. It looked like engine oil. Smelled worse. I didn't touch it.
Jarek took a sip from his like he didn't notice—or like he'd built up a tolerance for poison. Probably had.
"The higher-ups finally figured out what to do with you," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Something real this time. None of that small-scale freelance shit."
I flipped the folder open.
Photographs. Reports. News clippings. Maps. Pages stuffed with names and numbers. Surveillance stills of meetings in back alleys and glittering ballrooms alike. I wasn't even halfway through when Jarek spoke again, his voice a little lower now. Like he wanted to make sure no one else heard—though we both knew no one gave a damn.
"You know who they are, yeah?" he said. "The Kurov-Shin family."
I didn't answer. He kept going.
"They're not just another rich brat dynasty. These people—Dimitri and his late father Nakamura—they stitched together an empire in the dark. Arms, politics, pharmaceuticals, biotech, private military groups. Even the last war? The one that left your leg half-functional?" He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "They funded it. Supplied both sides. That war made them gods."
He sipped his coffee, then grinned like the devil at confession.
"They move the world without lifting a finger. And now, Dimitri wants his son prepped to take over. But the paranoia's setting in. After a failed hit at the last private gala with his son, he smells blood in the water. Rivals, snakes, even insiders. He wants a leash on the boy before he hands over the crown."
He kept talking and then— I saw it.
A photo paperclipped to the inside flap. Inside it was a young man. Smiling like the camera loved him. Tousled dark hair, amber eyes that practically glowed, a grin wide enough to cut glass. Too pretty. Too polished. Like he'd been groomed for the spotlight. It rubbed me the wrong way.
There was a list of identifiers beside the photo: height, weight, education, known habits etc. Favorite brands. Favorite clubs. Favorite people. I read it all.
"I've heard of Dimitri," I said, eyes still on the photo.
Jarek grinned like I'd handed him a gift.
"Of course you have. Everyone's heard of Dimitri. But this—" he tapped the picture with a finger, "—this is his one and only. His blood. His heir. Kairen."
I looked up. "And?"
"Like I said earlier, Dimitri's getting paranoid," he said, leaning back in the booth. "Wants protection. Real protection. Not the kind that folds when shit gets loud. Wants someone with a brain and a kill count. Someone like you."
I stared at the picture again. Kairen Kurov. The golden boy.
"Let me guess," I said, voice flat. "You want me to babysit a spoiled rich kid."
Jarek laughed, low and long, eyes gleaming.
"Oh sweetheart," he said, that crooked smile widening, "that's not all."