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.
The man, broken, shaking, couldn't even answer. He just sobbed.
"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. His skin trembled under the touch.
Then, 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.