Chapter 39Where Shadows Drown the Light
Where Shadows Drown the Light
Aslanov
Time has unraveled into nothingness. Seconds, minutes, maybe even hours, stretch and fold into themselves, devoured by the relentless rhythm above.
Drip.
A single drop of water strikes my forehead. Cold. Precise. Insignificant, at first.
The next one follows, perfectly timed, perfectly placed.
A cruel metronome, marking the slow erosion of sanity.
My head is immobilized, strapped down with coarse leather that bites into my skin.
The rest of me is stretched across the metal table, wrists and ankles locked in steel, the chill seeping into my bones.
Every breath is shallow, labored, as if my own body resents the effort of survival.
My muscles ache from the rigid stillness, the inability to shift, to escape.
Drip.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it makes no difference.
The water doesn’t care. It lands in the same exact spot every time—tiny, relentless stabs against my skull.
A slow, deliberate torment. The body can endure a beating, can even grow numb to it.
But this? This is something worse. This is a patient kind of destruction, the kind that seeps through flesh and bone, burrowing deep into the mind.
It’s been nearly an hour. Maybe more. Maybe less.
Time is an illusion now, stretched thin beneath the relentless assault.
My thoughts scatter like sand slipping through fingers.
The anticipation coils inside me, a silent, unseen torment.
I wait for each drop like I would a blade, flinching before impact, but it does nothing to stop the inevitability of it striking, the precision with which it finds its mark over and over again.
My body is motionless, but inside, I am fraying.
A shudder racks through me. The chill of the table is a lover’s touch compared to the suffocating weight of waiting, of knowing the next drop is coming but never being able to predict exactly when.
The cold has sunk deep into my limbs, dulling sensation, making me feel detached from my own body.
But I am still here. Still aware. Still suffering.
The door creaks open. Footsteps. Measured. Leisurely. I know that rhythm.
His presence coils through the room like smoke, thick and stifling. He doesn’t speak at first. He waits. Watches. Let’s the silence work its way under my skin, lets the water continue its quiet torment. The weight of his gaze is a physical thing, pressing down on me, suffocating in its intensity.
I grit my teeth, jaw tightening against the involuntary shiver that ripples through me. He sees it. He always sees it.
“You’re quiet,” he muses, voice smooth, amused. “I expected more from you, Aslanov.”
I say nothing. Refuse to give him what he wants.
He’s a sadist.
The corner of his mouth twitches, the ghost of a smirk.
He steps closer, the air shifting with his movement.
The scent of expensive cologne and faint cigarette smoke drifts into my lungs, an intrusion I cannot escape.
“Did you know,” he continues, conversational, “this was once used to drive men to madness? No blades. No fire. Just a single drop of water, over and over again, until their minds broke apart at the seams.”
I inhale slowly, steadying myself against the next impact. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
Nick leans in, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “how long you’ll last.”
I feel it in my skull now, the way the water drills into me like it intends to carve through bone. My breathing shudders despite myself.
Nick notices.
His fingers trail along my arm, light, almost gentle, mocking. “You know,” he muses, “there’s something poetic about this. A man like you, so used to violence, to blood, to chaos. And yet, here you are, brought to the edge by something as simple as water.”
A sound escapes me before I can stop it, a small, fractured thing. A whimper. Weak.
He straightens, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket with absent care. “Tell me, Aslanov; where is Dominik?”
The name slides between us like a blade, cutting through the air, through what little composure I have left.
I say nothing. I focus on the steady burn in my shoulders, the ache in my spine, the sharp bite of leather digging into my wrists. I focus on the next drop, the inevitability of it, the way it carves into me with unrelenting patience.
Nick chuckles. “Still stubborn, then.” He steps away, his footsteps a lazy echo in the cavernous room. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Rumors are swirling, you know. Whispers that Dominik is struggling to keep the reins over the empire.”
I don’t react. I won’t.
He tuts softly. “Below him, everything is falling apart. Many men are turning away, easily bought.” He lets the words settle, a deliberate pause before the final cut. “Loyalty is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? You ruled with fear, but now that you’re gone, so is that fear.”
Something inside me coils tight. Dominik is the last pillar standing between order and absolute collapse. If he’s losing control, if men are turning against him, then the empire will crumble, piece by piece, until there is nothing left but blood and ruin.
Without warning, he steps closer to the dripping mechanism, his eyes never leaving me.
He raises his hand. The motion is deliberate, slow. Then, with a small turn of the knob, he increases the flow of water, making the drops faster, harder, more relentless.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Each strike feels sharper now, like tiny hammers chipping away at my skull, each impact landing with new force, quicker, forcing me to recoil against the restraints.
My breath catches in my throat, lungs tightening as my chest rises and falls in frantic, uneven gasps.
The world feels like it’s folding in on itself, my thoughts scattering, unraveling.
Nick watches with cold amusement, his eyes gleaming as he sees the panic begin to take root. The water doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease its assault.
I can’t focus. I can’t think. It’s like the water is drowning everything, my thoughts, my sense of time, even the voice in my head that tells me to stay silent.
“Where is Dominik, Aslanov?” Nick presses, his voice a smooth murmur, his breath brushing against my ear as he steps closer, just out of reach.
My heart stutters in my chest, a pounding drumbeat. I try to breathe through it, but the air feels too thin, too tight. I can’t keep up with the rhythm of it—the drip, drip, drip—each one louder, harder, faster than the last.
“I... I don’t know.” My voice cracks, barely a whisper as the panic bubbles up in my throat, threatening to choke me. I can feel the pressure building inside my skull, the water drilling into me, and I can’t stop it. I can’t make it stop.
Nick’s eyes narrow, studying me with something akin to curiosity, the slightest tilt of his head. “You don’t know?” he repeats, voice tinged with mock disbelief. “Really?”
I shake my head, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched against the storm inside me. “He... He’s always wandering.”
The words feel like stones in my mouth, too heavy, too difficult to speak. But the truth spills out, against my will.
“I don’t know where he is.”
‘‘Hmm,’’ he murmurs, as if considering something. ‘‘Perhaps Petrov knows, then. He’s been telling me such useful information lately.’’ His voice is laced with mock sincerity, the kind that makes my blood run cold.
A surge of something primal rises in me, rage, helplessness, both of them tangled together in a gnawing knot. Petrov . He has nothing to lose and yet he is spitting secrets like it’s Christmas.
I tug at the restraints, my hands straining against the cold metal, desperate to move, to do anything—but they hold firm.
The leather digs into my wrists, biting into my skin as I pull harder, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
I ignore the pain, the ache of the restraints cutting into me.
All I can think of is Petrov, and how if I could just break free, I could tear that man apart with my bare hands.
This bastard never planned to form a unit.
“The time will come,” he continues, his voice now almost bored, “when I won’t need you anymore.
” His words drag out, a slow caress that cuts deeper than the water ever could.
“And then…” He pauses, letting the silence hang between us.
“You’ll live up to the myth of being dead, and unlike you Russians, I won’t get my own hands dirty. ”
Death sounds like a kindness.
Nick makes as if to walk away, his footsteps echoing through the room, but I can’t stand it. I can’t just let him leave, not like this, not after everything.
The scream erupts from me before I can stop it, a raw, guttural sound filled with frustration and rage. “Who the fuck are you?” The words tear through the air, jagged, desperate. “Who the fuck do you think you are to do this to me?”
Nick stops, just for a moment, his back still turned, his posture casual as if he’s not even fazed by my outburst. Then, a chuckle, low and dark, escapes from his lips. It’s a sound of amusement, of someone who knows they’ve won—before they’ve even finished the game.
He turns back slowly, that same cold amusement dancing in his eyes, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Who am I?” he repeats, as if savoring the question.
‘‘I’m the biggest surprise of your life, Aslanov.’’