GRIFFIN #3
I hate that I still dream of Seraphim, even after everything.
I hate this stupid loyalty that won’t die, I hate knowing that if he showed up at my door right now, with that fallen angel smile and an impossible plan, I’d say yes before he even finished the invitation.
The metal arm would just be an afterthought, a thing of the past, as if I didn’t feel a fucking phantom pain shooting down my shoulder every fucking day.
I tried to stop you, Sera. And you tore a piece of me away.
A tear runs down my face, and I feel angry with myself. Beneath it, there’s that rotten hope that maybe, this time, things could be different. But I know they won’t.
I let my head fall back and take a deep breath, waiting for the trembling to pass. I thought this shit with the Malakovs and that idiot Kirill hadn’t affected me. I judged wrong.
I get out of bed. I need to pull myself together. In the bathroom mirror, my face is still marked by a series of fights, and now, with a vulnerability I hate to see. I try to wash away the image of Seraphim, the sound of Myrddin, with cold water. The shit won’t come off.
So I bury it by force.
Seraphim isn’t here anymore. Alexei is. He gave me an order, and I partially followed it. I dealt with a guy. Dumped the body. Came back to the hotel. I hope he deals with the corpse. It’s not my jurisdiction.
Would he be mad that his little dog slipped the leash a bit? There was blood everywhere. I think that qualifies as a mess.
If he really didn’t want a mess, would he have sent me? A slightly uncertain, slightly dangerous performance test. I’ve only known him for an hour, but it was enough: he’s not a fan of uncontrollable, dangerous variables.
What happens now? Does he send his men to give me a beating as punishment? Take me to a basement for a real interrogation? Or does he simply discard me, leaving me to rot in this room until the money runs out? Each scenario has its appeal, but the uncertainty is what keeps me awake.
Suddenly, I hear a vibration. A vibration on the wood, from a phone on a table. But my phone—my real one, not the burner I broke after leaving Kirill’s apartment—is in my pocket.
I look around. It’s not hidden: there’s a different burner phone from the last one on the dresser, next to the bed.
Of course they found out where I am. Of course they came in here while I was sleeping and left the phone there, casually, without even trying to hide it. They’ve probably already put cameras in here.
I pick up the phone. There’s a single message from a protected number.
Are you hurt?
I stare at the screen. What a joke. I feel a twitch—a half-smile that appears against my will. There’s no red sniper light on my chest. Score one for me. I’ll test the waters.
can’t you see on your cameras?
His reply flashes on the screen almost instantly, ignoring my provocation.
Don’t test my patience.
A crooked smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. He’s playing back.
sore ribs and a few scratches. nothing painkillers and hate can’t fix.
btw, the mess was on the house.
I send it. The message is seen in the same breath. The reply takes longer. Ten seconds that drag out, longer than the hours I spent rotting in the hotel.
Blackwood Building. Penthouse. 30 minutes. A car is waiting in front of the hotel.
My heart jolts. Go to the building for what? To get punished? Another job? To get erased, maybe for good.
I can’t help myself. Last drop of insubordination.
and here i thought you’d ask me out first
Seen. No reply.
I get up, ignoring the way my body screams. Kirill was a bastard, but he punched like a child. Every ache is from before—the fights, the awkward angles, the way I finished off Kirill. That’s the mess he’ll want to see for himself.
I don’t bother to clean up. He won’t care. He’ll care that, even broken, I’m still standing.
On the thirtieth floor, the door slides open directly into a sanctuary dedicated to the worship of money.
The floor is black marble, the walls are glass, the furniture too minimalist to be comfortable.
Inside, everything is so quiet I can hear the motors of delivery drones crossing the city, and in the middle of this altar, with his back to me, looking at the skyscrapers as if calculating his next acquisition, stands Alexei Malakov.
Last time, he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t explicitly threaten, but made it clear that my existence was, from then on, mortgaged in the name of interests greater than anything I could possibly desire.
And, also, today he is alone again.
He turns slowly.
“You’re fascinating, Griffin,” he says. It’s a strange compliment. His voice is clean, but his accent is stronger when he says my name.
“Is it the metal arm? Girls usually like it.”
One corner of his mouth curls. “I gave you a simple order. No mess. And you delivered a crime scene. There was blood on the ceiling, Griffin.” He pauses briefly, long enough for me to imagine how much that truly bothered him.
“I’m not complaining.” He takes a step towards me. “Your… exuberance… was instructive.”
His gaze scans my face, drops to my chest, makes a slow curve towards the mechanical arm. With Malakov, you never know if he’s about to promote you or bury you.
“I thought you’d shoot me for that,” I say.
Alexei lets out a laugh that makes the entire room seem less lethal. It’s a clean, unexpected laugh. His smile is too white, too perfect, and he smiles with his eyes too. I’m not used to it. People who smile too much usually want to sell you something or steal your soul. In his case, probably both.
“No,” he says, turning his entire body to face me. “You, acting as you did, was to be expected.” He moves to the marble table that divides the room and opens a drawer with the care of someone who doesn’t want to get their hands dirty. “I am considering your transgressions.”
He pulls out a black envelope. He places it on the table’s surface and slides it towards me, his long fingers holding it until the last second. These are hands that, I suppose, never had to break anything: they only sign sentences, never execute them.
I walk to the table and stare at the envelope. “What is this?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at the city below, then turns his eyes back to me.
“What did you think of the building?” he asks. Alexei repeats his usual gesture, that economical sign of permission, of “go ahead”.
These are simple details, but anyone who grew up among gunfights and concrete basements learns quickly: the value of something is always in the ritual of delivery. I walk to the table.
“Good view. Should sell well on resale,” I say without thinking. I pick up the envelope.
It’s heavier than it should be, and has a velvety texture that sticks to my fingers. It’s strange how these things can make me nervous.
He smiles with half his mouth and makes a minimal gesture—again, permission for me to open it.
I tear open the flap, slide the contents into my hand, expecting paperwork, confession, blackmail.
It’s a card.
Matte black, nameless, a pure, heavy rectangle. No brand, no chip, nothing visible. It just exists.
I look at Alexei, expecting him to break the suspense with a sadistic comment, a bad joke, but the bastard says nothing.
“What’s this for?” I ask, not hiding my skepticism.
“It’s a stipend. Your compensation.”
I thought the “compensation” was the fact that I was still breathing and didn’t have a squad of Russian assassins on my tail.
“Compensation for what? For getting your rich rug dirty with blood?”
“For your service. And for your silence,” Alexei replies, completely neutral. “It’s a pre-paid card. Nameless. I recharge it remotely. Use it for whatever you need.” He pauses, watching me. “But I will have access to the statement.”
There it is again. The way he looks at me now… there’s nothing impersonal about it. His eyes are a soft, light blue, but they gain a fucked-up intensity when he stares at me like that, appearing darker.
That look undresses and prices me at the same time.
I clench the envelope in my hand. The feeling of being seen this way… it’s invasive and humiliating. It sends an electric current down my spine and heats my blood, pooling low in my belly.
He stands perfectly calm, meters away. And yet, my body reacts as if he had his hands on me, pressing me against the wall, seconds from killing me, stripping me of all free will.
My breathing shortens in my chest, the skin on my arms prickles.
Shit. I need to get out of here.
I know it’s stupid. In fact, every cell in my body is screaming for me to shut the fuck up and just nod, smile, and get out of there in one piece, but there’s a burnt resistor in my head, a factory defect that forces me to challenge anyone who tries to give me orders.
Especially someone like Alexei, who is too dangerous to exist.
I say before I can stop myself, “Are you going to stand there admiring your new investment or are you going to tell me what you want?”
Alexei’s reaction is never what you expect. He moves his chin slightly forward, leans in a little, and, out of nowhere, his voice comes out affectionate, “Do I bother you, Griffin?”
I tense my entire body, ready for a physical attack, but nothing happens except his voice.
He continues, “You can’t help but poke at me, can you? You need to see how far you can go before there’s a consequence.”
I should hold back the impulse, but the honesty of anger betrays me. “I just want to know when you lose control.”
He gives a minimal smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know when I’m close.”
I think about answering, but nothing I say will top what’s already on the table. The bastard won the round.
Satisfied with my silence, Alexei’s smile widens slightly.
“Answering your question, I want nothing, for now.” His hand slides into the inner pocket of his jacket with rehearsed fluidity. He pulls out a single key, holding it by the rings of a simple black leather keychain.