Kadyk Karimov flinched as though he had swallowed something sharp and bitter. Pain flashed in his eyes with each word I uttered, like a whip cutting across exposed skin. Yet I no longer believed in anything—no apologies, no excuses. I pressed on, painting in vivid strokes the portrait of his cheerful, ruthless family, how they acted in concert, as predators do. When I finished, we remained facing each other, the cold night air thick with tension. My hand still clutched his wrist, refusing to let go.
"Do you think you know it all? That I'm the villain here?" he exhaled, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping him. "It's so easy for you to see things in black and white. So much easier than understanding what your family has done to mine."
I blinked, stunned. My family? What could we have possibly done to him?
"Oh, don't look so shocked," Nikita scowled. "The moment you left the city with your father, you distanced yourself. You even thought a short, careless message could rid yourself of me."
He released my hand suddenly, and I recoiled, a flicker of fear racing through me. But Nikita pressed on, voice low, edged with frustration:
"I wish I knew what he told you, how much truth there was in it. But what does it matter now?"
His words struck hollow, echoing in the frozen clearing. Galina stepped back silently, folding her hands, her eyes glinting with anticipation. A tight knot formed in my stomach. I knew a trap awaited.
"What are you talking about? How could my family possibly harm yours? That's—unthinkable."
Galina finally spoke, her voice a melodic shriek that cut through the cold night: "She doesn't know anything. Ha-ha! This is a miracle!"
Her laughter was beautiful yet chilling, each note like ice scraping bone.
"Shut up!" Nikita barked at his mother, then turned to me, a shadow of the boy I once knew. No longer the high school student I had loved, he carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who had survived horrors beyond my imagining. His smile had hardened into a scowl; he was a man, fully aware of what he had become.
He raised his hands toward my face, pausing, silently asking for permission. I recoiled instinctively.
"You don't trust me," he said, bitterness sharp in his tone.
I laughed, a harsh, almost insane sound.
"Should I?" I spat. "You kidnapped my father! Lured him into the woods with threats! And now you act like you are the persecuted ones. Do you even realize how this looks from the outside, Nik?"
Anger boiled inside me, overtaking fear. Words tumbled from my mouth in a torrent of disbelief and rage. I wanted to understand the why behind my father's capture, but more than anything, I wanted to see him safe. Every wasted moment in this forest, entangled in explanations and lies, only sharpened my fury. Where had my calm, measured self gone?
Nikita ran a hand down his neck, collecting his thoughts. Then, slowly, he began to speak, revealing a truth that left me reeling:
"Galina is my real mother," he said, nodding toward the woman beside him.
"I figured that out after you called her 'son,'" I replied coolly. Nikita's lips pressed into a tight line, disapproval etched into his features. His expression seemed to demand, Do you need me to explain further? I lowered my gaze, admitting my oversight silently.
"So here's the truth," he continued. "My mother was coerced, against her will, by a zealous doctor—in the middle of delivery. The birth was complicated. Galina lost a lot of blood giving birth to me, and... charming Dr. Smirnov," his voice curled with contempt, "decided he alone had the right to choose my mother's fate."
"Son," Galina interjected, her voice calm but firm. "This is more my story than yours."
They exchanged a loaded glance, and Nikita gestured for her to continue.
"I woke up in a blindingly bright room," she began. "The light made it hard to open my eyes, so I closed them and tried to rely on my other senses. The first thing I noticed was the absence of the familiar signals of my body—no pain, no heaviness, no warmth. My body was something else entirely, freed from its past constraints. I reached for my stomach, searching for my child, but my fingers met only smooth, unbroken skin. In that instant, I prayed to all the gods, desperate for the child I had lost.
Then the doctor appeared—Vladimir Smirnov. He leaned over me, shielding my face from the projector's relentless glare. His voice was warm, patient. He told me my former life had ended. My child could not be saved, he explained, but he could save me, transform me, grant me a life beyond mortal limits. He spoke of eternal beauty and limitless potential, while my heart shattered into fragments. A piece of me—the mother I had been—was severed, lost to the sterile logic of a man who felt nothing for my grief.
He kept me there, teaching me to drink donor blood, to master this new body, to explore what I had become. Time blurred. Days passed, then months, though I could not measure them. Sleep became unnecessary. Mirrors, clocks, calendars—none existed. I did not know if he came daily or if my mind imagined his presence. All I knew was the absence, and the gnawing ache of what had been stolen from me."