Page 125 of Cruel Obsession

I’ve smelled it before. In warehouses on the docks. In abandoned factories where my father conducted his “business meetings.” But never like this. Never this concentrated, this permanent.

I move forward, each step measured and precise, silent. Stefan and Yuri follow me, weapons ready. I can hear Stefan’s breathing, slightly heavier than usual. He’s thinking about Julia. About what we might find.

Or what we might not find.

The weight of my Makarov is comforting against my palm—a tool I know intimately. My thumb rests against the safety,muscle memory from a thousand drills. Unlike my father, who treats weapons like toys and people like commodities.

Before we descended, I checked the chamber methodically—once, twice, three times. An old ritual born from blood and guilt.

The ghost of another weapon, another time, hovers at the edges of my consciousness. Mishka’s face—twelve years old, laughing at something stupid I’d said. Then the sound. That terrible, final sound. The way his expression shifted from confusion to nothing in the space between one breath and the next.

I push it away.

Not now, dolboyob.

The first room we check is empty except for a single foldable bed, the metal frame rusted at the joints. A bucket in the corner. One metal plate on a shelf. I shine my light across every surface, taking in details. Scratches on the wall—five vertical lines grouped together, then a diagonal slash. Counting days. Someone was here long enough to lose track of time.

Who were you?

I wonder.

Where are you now?

We move to the next room. Then the next.

Some are empty, others like prison cells with foldable beds. Some rooms have twenty beds crammed together, the spaces between them barely wide enough for a person to turn around. Others have fewer: ten, twelve. Buckets sit in corners to serve as toilets. Metal plates are stacked on shelves, the kind you’d find in a military mess hall. Efficient. Impersonal. Designed to strip away humanity one meal at a time.

“Looks like your old man isn’t playing small,” Stefan says, his voice tight with rage. “This isn’t for a small-scale gig. You could house a fucking village in here.”

I don’t respond. The muscles in my jaw are locked. There’s nothing to say. Every inch of this underground hell confirms what I already knew—Gavriil Laurov is a monster wearing human skin.

And his blood runs through my veins.

Does that make me one, too?

The question surfaces before I can stop it.

How much of him is in me?

How many degrees separate his choices from mine?

I count the beds in the next room. Eighteen.

Jesus Christ.

How many has he had in here?

Another corridor stretches ahead. More doors. More cells. I check each one methodically, my pulse pounding with every empty room.

Where is she?

Mirabel isn’t here. The thought circles in the back of my mind, threatening to shred my focus. My fingers tighten around the grip of my weapon. Each empty room feels like a countdown. Like we’re running out of chances.

What if he moved her?

What if we’re searching the wrong location entirely?

What if the old cunt outsmarted us?