The therapist scrambled backward, slipping in the mud, eyes wide and animal with fear.
The rain had become a living thing.
It roared across the open grave like a wild animal unleashed, hammering the earth until the ground surrendered completely.
What had once been dirt was now a churning, ankle-deep swamp. Water poured into the open graves in relentless sheets, rising fast—black, cold, merciless.
The therapist coughed.
A wet, broken sound.
“Mr. Ruslan...” The man’s voice cracked, thin and pleading, barely audible over the rain.
He struggled to keep his head above the rising water. “There seems to be a misunderstanding. I can explain—”
Ruslan didn’t let him finish.
He stepped forward and threw a single punch.
It landed with devastating precision.
The crack of knuckles against bone echoed like a gunshot through the storm. Blood sprayed in a bright arc, splattering across Ruslan’s face and chest. The therapist groaned—low, animal, stripped of language—and sagged, barely conscious.
Ruslan grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright like dead weight.
“Mr. Ruslan... I never—”
The rest of the sentence drowned.
In one brutal, decisive motion, Ruslan drove his head down into the ankle-deep water. Hard.
Marcus thrashed instantly. His hands clawed at Ruslan’s wrists, fingers slipping, nails scraping uselessly against soaked fabric.
Water rushed into his mouth as he tried to gasp, his body jerking in blind panic. His legs kicked wildly, splashing mud and rain, desperation written into every convulsion.
He didn’t want to die.
That was clear in the frantic way he fought—lungs burning, shoulders shaking, muscles straining with everything he had left.
Ruslan didn’t flinch.
He kept Marcus’s head submerged, arm locked, unyielding, watching the struggle slow—not out of haste, but intent. As if hewanted to see the exact moment fear gave way to helplessness. As if he needed to be sure.
Rain continued to fall around them, indifferent.
And Ruslan held him there, steady and merciless, until the fight began to fade.
But the moment Ruslan released him, Marcus jerked his head above the water, gasping, lungs searing with relief. He thought he was done—thought death had finally claimed him.
Adrenaline and terror ignited his muscles.
His eyes widened, wild, panicked. Without thinking, he lashed out, swinging a desperate, uncontrolled punch, fueled by fear rather than skill.
Ruslan’s hand shot up.
He caught the punch mid-air as if it weighed nothing, twisting Marcus’s arm violently. There was a sharp, wet pop—bone or joint giving way—and the sound cut through the air like a knife.
Marcus’s scream erupted, high-pitched and shrill, raw, stripped of anything human by sheer terror.
