Galina's story began to feel like a slow, deliberate torture. She spared no detail, tracing the arc of her history with a meticulous precision that made my mind ache. And yet, the longer I listened, the more elusive the purpose of her narrative became—why was she telling me all this? Outside, a frigid wind rose, rattling the skeletal branches, and I became aware of the snow underfoot, crisp and dazzling. Oddly, I no longer felt the cold. Winter itself seemed to vanish. Instead, my body burned from within, as if some inner fire were trying to force me to endure her tale. When would she finally speak of Kostya, rather than dwell on her own tormented existence—a woman who had never sought this life, yet now bore the consequences of another's cruel decision?
Impatience mounted alongside that strange, consuming heat, until I could restrain myself no longer. I cut her off mid-sentence.
"Listen," I said, my voice firmer than I expected, "I am sorry this all happened to you. Dr. Smirnov seems… complicated, from what I've heard, but I only met him once—and I'm hardly an admirer. I have nothing to do with him. What concerns me far more is my family. Surely, you didn't bring me here only to recount a heart-wrenching story, did you?"
Galina smirked, a fleeting curl of amusement on her lips, then looked away.
"She's cheeky," the vampire commented, glancing at Nik.
"And she's right," Nik replied. "Let's get to the point."
Galina snorted, waving her hand with an air of mild exasperation, as if disappointed that no one cared about the sprawling drama of her life—one in which multiple families were implicated. Yet, I understood the truth: human lives are intricately woven together, and not every action is deliberately cruel. Dr. Smirnov's misdeeds toward her did not necessarily stem from malice. Still, one cannot judge a man who is rendered voiceless when recounting his own story.
Galina fell silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the snowy undergrowth, as if seeking the perfect words, choosing only those that fit seamlessly with her narrative.
"Well, Asya," she finally said, her voice quieter, measured, "let's skip over Dr. Smirnov's numerous secret experiments—the many who failed, and the few who… survived. I, apparently, was one of the successful ones. But not everyone could withstand the venom. Many died. And yet he kept meticulous records, hidden in some forgotten corner of his cursed mansion. Every failure and success cataloged. A grotesque labor. So many senseless deaths, wasted lives, all traded like currency for one man's obsession."
"You can't truly judge him without knowing his intentions," I interjected.
Galina's lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze sharp and reproachful.
"You didn't want to hear the whole story yourself, so please—don't interrupt now," she said, her tone icy yet calm. "I know his motives. They are selfish, cold, and entirely human. But to answer your question—about how your family is involved—it's easier to show you than explain."
Her hand slipped beneath her blouse, and she produced a small, tightly folded paper, passing a silent command to her son. Nikita obeyed, taking the document and presenting it to me with an unmistakable neutrality, as though he had no stake in the war unfolding around him. I couldn't help but smirk; did he truly believe our connection could survive such betrayal? Did he think I could continue to love someone whose actions had actively threatened my family?
I unfolded the paper. A printed adoption certificate stared back at me, foreign and opaque. I had never seen such a thing and would have been lost without the bold, explicit title. My eyes scanned the text, and I turned to Galina, shrugging in confusion, silently asking, "And…?"
"Look at the signature, Asya," she said softly.
My gaze fell on the final line. The registry seal was familiar, but it was the flourish of the signature that stopped my heart—it was my father's.
"What does this mean? My father doesn't work in the registry office. How could he have signed this? I don't understand," I stammered.
"In small towns, one person can hold multiple positions if staff are scarce," Galina explained. "Your father was head of the civil registry that year. It didn't last long, but it was enough to help an old friend—Dr. Smirnov—settle his affairs. That signature is also on my death certificate."
A horrifying clarity formed in my mind, and part of me recoiled, refusing to accept the truth: Kostya had helped Dr. Smirnov manage the consequences of failed experiments, reducing human lives to mere paperwork.
"There have been many such testimonies," Nik added gently, seeing my confusion. "Victims were often alone, without close relatives. Funerals were formalities. Connections smoothed over everything—your father had plenty of them. They quietly ensured the surviving child was hidden, as in my case, a favor for an old friend who longed for a child."
"How can you speak so of your parents?" I demanded.
"What do you mean, Asya?" Nik said softly. "I condemn what your father did, not the people who raised me. I love my parents. That cannot be taken away."
Galina's eyes narrowed, and she hissed with fury. "Until new truths come to light, like about Konstantin. Do you really think it was coincidence that they crossed paths? No, son. Those two needed each other. Your father owed a debt, and Dr. Smirnov ensured it was paid. Promises can bind a person for life."
"My father may have acted out of duty," Kostya protested, unwilling to see his protector as a villain. His memory of a caring, overprotective father clashed violently with this revelation. He couldn't have done evil—could he?
"He could," Galina said, a faint, bitter smirk twisting her lips, "but that doesn't change anything. He took my child. My final memory of life was stolen, and he must answer for it."