For almost twenty years I've served the Pakhan. The last ten years as his right hand, his weapon, the man who handles the dirty work. The kind that requires someone with no morals left to compromise. I was that person. Prided myself on it.
Somewhere along the way, something shifted. A hairline fracture in my foundation that widened with each order, each kill, each casual cruelty dressed up as business. Whether the man I'd been bleeding for was worth it. Then he ordered me to kill a fifteen-year-old girl.
Brutalized. Broken. Barely conscious. And he wanted her dead.
Something inside me rebelled. I couldn't help her escape properly—too many eyes, too much risk. But I gave her what I could. A water bottle. A choice. I never expected her to make it. And now, ten years later, she’s working in Lush.
She’s a phoenix risen from ashes I helped create. She's back for blood.
I started following her three weeks ago. Not every night. I'm not completely obsessive. Just most nights. I tell myself it's reconnaissance. It's a lie. I follow her because I can't help myself. Because watching her has become the only thing that makes me feel anything besides the endless gray of my existence.
She leaves Lush around 3:00 a.m. most nights, drives home and immediately begins a workout. I watch from the shadows as she trains with a focus that borders on fanatical. If I had any doubts about her agenda, they’re gone now.
She's good. Better than good. She hits the heavy bag like it owes her money. Her form is nearly perfect—someone taught her well. I watch her body move. The flex of muscle under skin, the way sweat makes her glow under the fluorescent lights , and the scar on her back—carved by men I gave orders to—visible when she strips down to her sports bra.
She never sees me. I make sure of it. Her shithole apartment in a building with broken security cameras and neighbors who mind their own business was a smart choice. I've only been inside once, when she was at the club, picking the lock in under a minute. Sparse. Clean. The apartment of someone ready to run at a moment's notice. Weapons hidden in strategic locations, emergency cash taped under drawers, and a go-bag in the closet.
I know I shouldn't have been in her apartment at all. I'm crossing lines that can't be uncrossed. But watching her isn't enough anymore, hasn't been for weeks. I need to know everything about her. What makes her tick, what drives her, what she thinks about in the hours between revenge and survival.
I need her in ways that go far beyond physical, and it's destroying me from the inside out.
I've spent years not feeling much of anything. Existing in the space between violence and obedience. No emotion. No attachment. No weakness. Then I kissed her and everything changed. She tastes like something I've been missing my entire life. Her body against mine felt like coming home and going to war at the same time.
I want more.I want everything.I want to watch her come undone under my hands, hear her say my name in pleasure. Tofind any softness left in her, any vulnerability she hasn't burned away in pursuit of revenge. But I can't have those things because I understand she needs control. If she gives herself to me—really gives herself—it'll shatter whatever fragile equilibrium she's built. So, I take what she offers. Her mouth, her body pressed against mine during those charged moments at the club. The electricity between us that everyone can feel. And I will continue to follow her home afterward, watching her apartment from my car, making sure she gets inside safe and no one else is watching her the way I am.
Possessive. Obsessive. Completely fucking compromised.
I've become everything I've always despised. Weak. Distracted. Controlled by desire instead of controlling it.
And I don't give a single fuck.
At Lush, I continue the charade. Let Aleksandr and his friends meet there, letting information flow freely while Sofiya listens from their laps, funneling intel to her indirectly by leaving files in places she'll find them, and ensuring certain conversations happen when she's nearby. I'm actively helping her destroy the Pakhan. The man who saved me from freezing to death on Moscow streets.
It should feel like betrayal. It should keep me awake with guilt. It doesn't. Because the Pakhan ordered a child tortured and killed for the sin of existing. Because he's built an empire on cruelty and calls it honor. Because he deserves what's coming.
And because Sofiya deserves to be the one who delivers it.
I’m playing both sides, serving the Pakhan while undermining him, protecting Sofiya while knowing she plans to kill me. The cognitive dissonance should drive me insane.
When Sofiya makes her move, I'll be there. Have to be. And I'm the Pakhan's right hand—a title I've killed for, bled for, earned through years of loyalty and violence. Which means she'll come for me too— eventually. Maybe not the same night, maybe not for months, but she will.
I’ll be the last loose end. The only person who knows her real identity, her history, her secrets. I'm a threat to whatever life she tries to build after the revenge is complete.
And here's the thing that keeps me pacing at 4:00 a.m., I don't think I'll fight back. Not really. Not the way I should. Not the way I'd fight anyone else who came for me. Because she deserves to destroy the men who destroyed her. And I'm one of those men, no matter how I try to justify my role. I cut her mother's tongue out, drove Sofiya into the desert and left her to die. The fact I gave her a chance doesn't absolve me of my sins. Maybe dying by her hand is justice. The only kind of justice that makes sense in our world. Maybe I've been waiting my whole life for someone worth dying for.
I reach for my phone and almost call her. I have her number, from Lush's records, and saved it under a fake name in case anyone looks. What would I even say? That I know her plan? That I support it? That I'm falling for her despite knowing she'll kill me? That I've been following her like a stalker, watching her sleep through her apartment window, memorizing the way she moves through her routines?
I put the phone down.
And I make peace with what's coming. My death is on the horizon. The girl I saved—the girl I'm obsessed with, falling for, whatever the fuck this is—will be the instrument of my destruction. That's the only ending that makes sense. In a world where violence is currency and cruelty is power, maybe the only mercy is letting the destroyers be destroyed. Maybe it's the only way the scales ever balance.
I finish my drink and throw the glass into the unlit fireplace. It shatters. Crystal shards catch the early morning light. My housekeeper will be delighted when she finds that later today. I run my fingers through my hair, letting frustration rise while gripping the dark strands. There's no scenario where this ends well. No happy ending waiting in the wings.
I'll go to Lush tonight and watch her dance, maybe kiss her again if she lets me. Follow her home afterward, and watch her apartment until I'm sure she's safe.
Tomorrow I'll continue playing the loyal right hand. I'll serve the Pakhan while sabotaging him. I'll help Sofiya get closer to her goal with every decision I make. And eventually, inevitably, it'll all come to an end. I just hope she survives it, that she gets her revenge and finds a way to keep living. I hope she becomes something more than the hate consuming her and realizes her greatest revenge isn't killing us—it's living despite everything we did to her.
My death won't mean anything, just another body added to the pile I've been building for fifteen years. But her life can mean something. Will mean something.
