The December air in Novodvanisk clawed at the cracked windows of the warehouse, a restless creature in its final moments.
Snow crept in, dying silently on the concrete while a blizzard roared just beyond the glass. Overhead, a single bulb flickered weakly, casting pale light over oil-stained floors and towers of contraband that loomed like forgotten tombstones.
A thin curl of smoke rose from the end of a cigarette, dangling casually from the lips of the young man perched on a steel desk, as if he were the very embodiment of death itself.
Wire-thin muscles, a barcoded cheek, a neck sewn up like an unfinished project, and a centipede tattoo winding down his arm—a grim reminder of failure. His black eyes didn't blink. They just stared, dark and endless, fixed on the broken figure tied to a chair before him.
He wasn't just handsome. He was unsettling—raven hair falling in loose waves, a braid swaying slightly with each breath, smoke curling from his lips like a dragon in exile.
His attire was simple: combat boots, black pants worn from battle, a shirt that clung to his form like it had been stitched into his skin. Behind him, a grim cathedral of weaponry: AKs, crates of ammo, explosives—all organized with meticulous care. This was no thug. He was an artisan of war.
His voice broke the silence—flat, devoid of inflection. It wasn't loud, nor soft. It was just a statement of undeniable truth.
"You're not giving me what I want."
A pause, heavy with the weight of unspoken threats.
"Time is expensive. I don't like wasting it."
The man in the chair? Broken. Bloodied. Gasping for air, swearing that he'd spilled everything. But Yuuta didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. His cigarette dropped to the floor and was extinguished underfoot.
He reached for a knife, cold steel, no flourish, no drama. Just a tool.
"You're lying."
The words were delivered without heat, just the bluntness of reality. He crouched in front of the man, tilting his head slightly as if watching an insect twitch in its final moments.
"You know what day it is?" Yuuta asked, his voice still and steady, magnanimously asking the unsuspected question.
The man, broken, shaking, couldn't even answer. He just sobbed in response to the young man's inquires, not providing an appropriate answer for his piteous state.
"December 24th," Yuuta said, exhaling smoke directly into his face. "Almost Christmas. Now, you're going to tell me the truth, or I'll rip it out of you."
The cold steel of the knife kissed the man's cheek, administrating an injection of fear that coursed through his veins. His skin trembled under the touch.
Then in a sudden shift. Yuuta blinked, a momentary distraction, and with a sharp clap of his hands, he snapped out of it.
"Enter."
The door groaned on its hinges, and in walked a giant—seven feet of muscle, scars like maps of hell's highways, carrying an M240B with the casual grace of someone holding a mere trinket. Vladimir. Loyal, deadly, unwavering.
"You called, sir Yuuta?"
Yuuta nodded toward the broken man in the chair. "Bring me the lab coat. And the glasses. And the cart. The one we talked about."
Without a word, Vladimir dipped his head and disappeared.
The prisoner whimpered, weakly struggling against his restraints. "What are you going to do to me?" he croaked.
Yuuta's gaze never wavered. "Make you useful."
"No—no! You can't get away with this!"
Yuuta didn't respond. Silence enveloped the room, thickening the air.
The door creaked open again, and Vladimir rolled in the cart. Vials, syringes, unnamed horrors in neat rows. A lab coat. Glasses. It was like a twisted parody of science fiction.
Yuuta slipped into the lab coat, a mad scientist's costume from the deepest corners of a nightmare, and drew a clear, twitching liquid from a vial.
Parasite?
The man in the chair screamed before the needle even touched his skin.
"Hold him."
Vladimir complied. His massive hands gripped the man like a vice.
Yuuta pressed the needle into the prisoner's arm. The convulsions started immediately—violent, uncontrollable. Blood poured from every orifice, flesh tearing, screams escalating into a symphony of torment. Nails cracked. Hair was ripped free. Bones bent and shattered.
And then, the explosion. A wet bloom of red. The walls were painted with meat, the air thick with the stench of fresh death.
Yuuta didn't even blink. He removed the needle slowly, as if savoring the moment. Silence.
Then came the drip. Drip. Drip.
Tears.
Real tears.
The demon weeps?
Even Vladimir froze.
Yuuta whispered, his voice barely a sound, "This… this was a magnificent scream."
A smile spread across his face, far too wide, far too feral.
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
Applause. Fast. Maniacal. Not for the death, but for the artistry of it.
"Vladimir," Yuuta said, his voice as calm as the falling snow outside. "Did you record that scream?"
A long silence.
"Vladimir?"
"Yes, boss!" came the reply.
Yuuta smiled, his hands working quickly to open a suitcase. Inside: a gold bar, blades, a revolver, .44 rounds, a scalpel etched with the words Liber Primus, opium seeds, a Swiss knife—all pristine, sacred in their cleanliness.
He admired them for a moment before closing the case and grabbing another—a sniper rifle, perfect, flawless.
And then, in a moment of strange contrast, the boy shed his war persona. He stripped out of combat mode and into the absurdity of street fashion: a black tee, white shorts, flip-flops, a comically long scarf, and a massive puffy coat. He looked like a child lost in a snowstorm.
-60 degrees Celsius.
It didn't matter. The cold didn't touch him.
He hefted the suitcases, nodding at Vladimir, who stood silently by.
"Let's go."
And the door closed behind them, the final sounds of the warehouse fading into the night as they stepped into the storm.
"Let's move." Yuuta ordered, voice like frostbite.
"Yes, Sir Yuuta. This way."
They slipped out into the storm, the warehouse doors groaning behind them. Snow whipped sideways under the anemic buzz of overhead lights. The guards outside snapped to attention, breath misting thickly in the arctic air of their godforsaken outpost. Out here, on a nowhere patch of frozen hell, Yuuta's word was the only law.
The world past the base perimeter didn't exist. Just blackness and the riot of the storm.
A black SUV sat waiting, engine rumbling low like a beast chained too long. Vladimir hauled the door open with a grunt, standing aside for Yuuta to slide into the heavy warmth inside. He followed, slamming the door shut with a meaty hand. Up front, the driver in a sharp tux nodded once, silent as a corpse, and pulled them out onto the ice-slick road.
For a while, only the sound of tires crunching through snow filled the air.
Then Vladimir spoke, his voice a slow, amused rumble.
"So. The Italians... these new contractors. What's their play?"
Yuuta leaned back against the leather, flicking open a battered cigarette pack. One cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit. His breath fogged the cabin, the heater struggling to chase away the cold still clinging to him like a second skin.
"Weapons. That's what they say." He exhaled slow. "But who fucking knows."
He turned his head slightly. "You got what I asked for?"
Vladimir chuckled, reaching into a blood-smeared black bag. With a lazy motion, he pulled free a cracked tablet smeared with something dark and tossed it to Yuuta.
"Yeah, boss. Got the whole story wrapped in a bloody bow."
Yuuta caught the device, thumbed it on. The screen flickered, glass fractured but alive. A PIN screen glowed. Twelve digits and a few symbols later, the screen unlocked to a PDF detailing the messy aftermath of a "negotiation."
He skimmed, silent. Until—
"Where's Eliza?" he asked, not looking up.
Vladimir paused. Smirked like a man holding in a laugh.
"Sandy beaches of Hawaii. Cocktails in hand. Living her best life."
Yuuta closed his eyes briefly, a nonverbal command loud enough to shatter glass.
"You want me to yank her back?" Vladimir asked, grin leaking through his words like blood from a cracked lip. "Tell her she's got a first-class ticket to hell?"
Yuuta nodded lazily. "Phone."
Vladimir fished into his coat, producing a beat-to-shit burner — one of those ancient gray Nokias that could survive a goddamn apocalypse. He flipped it open, dialed, and pressed the call button.
Brrrrrrr.
Brrrrrrr.
Before the third ring, a sharp click — connection made — and a hurricane of pissed-off woman exploded through the speaker:
"Which one of you cockroaches thought it was a good fucking idea to call me with a goddamn burner?! I'm on VACATION, you absolute morons! I swear to fucking GOD, if you ask me on a date again I will put a bullet straight through your fuc—"
Yuuta calmly lifted the phone to his ear.
"Hello."
Instant silence.
Only the muted purr of the SUV and the strangled snickers of Vladimir behind his massive hand.
On the line, Eliza sucked in a breath like she was about to drown.
"B-Boss?! Y-you need me...?" Her voice cracked. Gone was the rage, replaced by the trembling fear of someone who realized they just screamed at a thunderstorm.
Yuuta hummed, flipping through another bloody page of contractor reports.
"W-what's the problem, Boss? I-I just started my vacation—"
"Come to Italy."
Flat. Icy.
There was a heartbeat's pause. Then the sound of something precious shattering — her dreams, her sanity, who could tell.
"N-no! Boss! I'm on vacation! I barely got a sunburn—"
"Eliza."
One word.
She folded like wet paper.
"S-sure! Be there tomorrow! First flight out! Haha! Love it! Love working! Yay, me!"
Yuuta grunted approval. "Good."
He was about to hang up when he remembered.
"Oh. After this job? Two weeks, wherever you want."
Silence.
Then shrieking glee on the other end, her voice like someone who just found a suitcase of cash buried under their porch.
"R-really?! Thank you, Boss! Best boss ever!"
He hung up before she could get emotional, flipping the phone shut with a mechanical snap.
Without a word, Yuuta gestured to the driver. A worn wooden chess board slid from the front seat into Yuuta's lap. He nodded at Vladimir, who huffed and shifted his giant frame to make room.
Yuuta placed the board between them. He picked up a white pawn, rolling it between two fingers before setting it down with a soft click.
Vladimir grinned. "You're on, boss."
Outside, the storm howled louder. Something in it felt... wrong. Yuuta's instincts — the ones that had kept him breathing this long — twisted in warning.
He watched the swirling madness beyond the glass for a long moment.
"It seems the wind is howling," he muttered, voice low. "And the sky is weeping."
The SUV swallowed them into the night, disappearing into the white void. Ahead of them, Italy waited.
And in Italy?
Blood would flow.