Alya
Charm him? Me? Alya Corginei? And charm?
The thought alone made me scoff loud enough to turn a few guards' heads. Me, charming someone? That was as likely as Siege suddenly deciding I was worthy of being his daughter.
I had never needed charm, never had a reason to use it. The only men I had ever come into contact with were either my enemies or my training partners and neither of those situations required flirting. It was always blood, bone, and battle. No softness. No warmth. And certainly no seduction.
The last time a man had looked at me with anything other than hostility, his body had been found three days later. Face unrecognizable. Nose gone. Skin sunken and gray. So no, charming someone wasn't exactly on my skill set. Not when my very existence meant a death sentence to anyone who lingered too long in my presence. Yeah. I wasn't exactly winning Miss Congeniality anytime soon.
And yet, here I was, ordered to gain the trust of Wan Isamu, the illegitimate son of a powerful crime lord, as if I were some honey-tongued vixen instead of a trained killer. I ran a hand through my tangled hair in frustration, my fingers tightening around the crumpled photograph in my other hand.
Dark eyes. Sharpened features. A scowl that spoke of a lifetime of distrust.
Great.
I squinted, bringing the photo closer to my face, but the dim light around the warehouse made it impossible to make out any more details. Not that it mattered. I would be seeing him soon enough.
"Why does Siege need you?"
The sneering voice cut through my thoughts, dragging me back to the present.
Hule.
Of course, it was him.
I forced myself to keep walking, my gaze fixed ahead toward the dense treeline bordering the warehouse. The wind howled through the trees, whipping against my wounds beneath my clothes, but the sting was nothing compared to the irritation clawing at me.
Hule wasn't finished. He stepped in front of me, blocking my path, ducking slightly to meet my gaze. His golden hair was messy, strands falling into his sharp eyes that held that same insufferable smugness as he stepped in front of me, pushing his hair back impatiently from his face, blocking my view.
"Why are you here?" he asked again, this time with more demand.
"I would ask you the same thing." I smiled sweetly, though the urge to claw his smug face off was overwhelming.
His lips curved slightly, amused. "Wrong question."
I scowled.
"Where else would I be if not here?"
His arrogance was suffocating. I opened my mouth to snap at him, to cut him down with words the way he had cut me down in the ring countless times, "you—
BOOM.
The world shattered.
A violent, concussive force slammed into us, sending us both hurtling backward.
I hit the ground hard, the impact rattling through my bones, knocking the air from my lungs. The world blurred for a moment, my ears ringing, the taste of dust and blood thick on my tongue. Smoke slithered through the air, curling like dark fingers against the night sky. But what caught my attention was the explosion. It bloomed. A massive, roaring inferno swallowed the warehouse whole, a monstrous blaze of reds, oranges, and golds licking the sky like it was hungry. For a moment, I forgot about the pain. Forgot about the mission. Forgot about everything except the way the fire moved. It was alive. Writhing, devouring, consuming. Heat slammed into me, a wave of suffocating intensity that burned against my skin. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, transfixed by the destruction. I would have been dead, ripped to pieces by the rage of the explosion if I lingered inside the warehouse long enough.
A hand grabbed my arm, yanking me upright. The haze of awe shattered, reality snapping back into focus as I met Hule's gaze.
"We need to go!" he barked.
His voice was nearly drowned out by the chaos of the pounding footsteps, the panicked shouts, the metallic clatter of weapons being drawn for any threats. And they were right. Bullets tore through the night like thunder, a deadly rhythm of destruction. The guards fired back, their silhouettes barely visible through the thick smoke. Hule dragged me to the ground again as a fresh rain of bullets shredded through the air, hitting metal, shattering glass, piercing bodies. The scent of gunpowder, smoke, and blood mixed together into something almost nauseatingly familiar.
A gun was shoved into my hands.
"Focus!"
Hule's grip was iron-tight on my arm as he shook me once, knocking the air from my lungs.
I exhaled sharply, nodding. Gun. Target. Fire. That's what mattered. That's what I had been trained for.
"We need to find Siege!" Hule's voice was urgent, but his eyes were darting, analyzing, calculating.
"Who's doing this?" My voice barely found its way out before another hail of bullets forced us to press against the cold earth.
We were too exposed. We needed cover.
Hule must have had the same thought because he pulled me to my feet again, dragging me toward the black cars parked near the second warehouse.
Why that one?
I glanced over my shoulder, my mind racing.
Why did they attack the first warehouse and not this one?
My stomach twisted.
Someone knew we were here. Someone knew about the arrangement between Siege and Isamu if the intention was to blow up the place we agreed to meet. Then that meant Isamu's paranoia was justified. He must have sensed that this meeting was doomed from the start. And now he was right, the consequences for Siege would be nothing short of catastrophic.
"Wan," I muttered.
Hule's jaw clenched. "Isamu."
We came to the same realization at the same time. This wasn't just an attack. This was a test. And Wan Isamu was either the bait or the executioner.
I started to move.
"We need to help them—"
A hand caught my arm, yanking me back so hard I nearly stumbled.
His grip was iron-tight, his fingers digging into my sleeve as he pulled me against the frame of a rusted car. His body followed, pressing close as he peeked through the shattered window, his breath controlled, measured.
"I don't know whether you have survival instincts or not, but you can't 'help' them," he hissed. His voice was low, sharp, barely audible over the chaos beyond us.
Through the broken glass, I could see it—the wreckage, the fire painting everything in violent shades of orange and red. The screaming, the gunfire, the way bodies darted between the wrecked buildings and burning cars like ghosts in the night. But Hule's grip on my arm wasn't shaking. He wasn't scared. He was restraining me.
"You'll be dead before you know it."
He wasn't wrong.
But what struck me wasn't his words—it was the fact that he cared enough to stop me. If anything, he should be glad to see me dead. That was how things worked between us. He was Siege's golden boy, the one who followed orders without hesitation. If Siege had ever given the command to kill me, Hule wouldn't have questioned it. He would've carried it out like it meant nothing. The man took 'teacher's pet' to another level. So why was he holding me back now? I didn't get the chance to ask. A second explosion ripped through the surroundings, shaking the ground beneath us. The impact wasn't as devastating as the first, but it was close. Too close. Heat flashed against my face. Black smoke churned into the night, thick and suffocating, making the world even darker. I coughed, my eyes burning as I tried to see through the haze. The moment stretched too long. Then I saw them. Figures moving in the shadows.
They were fast. I had no time to react before hands were on me. I twisted, tried to jerk free, but I was outmatched. A rough arm snaked around my waist, yanking me back. Another hand clamped onto my wrist, twisting it at a painful angle, forcing me to my knees. Frustration burned through me. My fighting skills were pathetic compared to Hule's, and it showed. My kicks barely connected, my struggles only made them tighten their grip. A growl of frustration tore from my throat. Hule wasn't struggling. He was fighting. Brutally.
He moved with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times before. He fired two more shots before they reached him, his movements sharp, deliberate. When one of them knocked his gun from his hands, he didn't hesitate, he drove an elbow into the nearest man's throat, sending him staggering. He pivoted, grabbed another by the collar, and slammed him into the hood of the burning car. The heat didn't slow him. But there were too many.
Before I could even process what was happening, something cold pressed against the side of my head. Everything stopped. Hule froze mid-motion, his chest rising and falling hard. For the first time since this fight started, hesitation flickered across his face. It lasted a second. But a second was all they needed. Someone grabbed him from behind, ripping his arms back. The butt of a rifle struck the back of his head with a sickening crack.
He collapsed. Didn't move.
A thousand thoughts crashed through me like a tidal wave, each one colliding, breaking apart, reforming into something more chaotic. But beneath the confusion, beneath the fear clawing at my ribs, one thought rose above the rest, sharp and deafening.
Why did he stop?
Hule could have finished them. I had seen him fight—ruthless, efficient, a weapon in human form. He could have taken them all down, slipped into the shadows, walked away without a second thought.
But he didn't. He stopped. For me?
A cold weight settled in my stomach, twisting deep, pressing against my ribs until I could hardly breathe. It made no sense. Hule wasn't the type to hesitate. He wasn't the type to sacrifice himself for someone like me. And yet, he had. And now, he was lying motionless on the ground, his gun ripped from his grasp, blood darkening his hair where they had struck him.
I turned my gaze to the masked men, my pulse still erratic, my breath shallow. They loomed over me, their presence suffocating. Broad shoulders, thick arms, built for brute force rather than precision. They weren't lean and efficient like trained assassins. No, these men were muscle—designed to break, not to kill cleanly. Their movements were aggressive, their stances solid but unrefined. They relied on overwhelming power rather than strategy.
That alone told me one thing; Isamu couldn't have sent them.
Right? The thought barely forms before I shake it off. No. No way. Isamu wouldn't dare.
Besides, their combat style was all wrong. The Yazuka didn't fight like this. If Isamu had sent his men, they would've been faster, striking like a blade through the dark—silent, efficient, lethal. Their weapons wouldn't be standard assault rifles. They favored blades, small firearms, the kind of close-range combat that left little room for mistakes. Every kill would've been intentional, clean. A message. These men weren't sending messages. Were they?
But it wasn't Isamu.
So if not him, then who?
And who the hell would be reckless enough to risk defying the most powerful man in Russia?
The stakes were too high. The consequences of an untidy conflict with someone like Siege would be catastrophic, something Isamu wouldn't dare initiate. He wasn't the type to throw caution to the wind for the sake of ego or territory. The Yazuka didn't waste alliances. They weren't stupid.
But still, I couldn't shake the feeling that these men weren't from anywhere near our circle. They didn't belong here. One of the men glanced at me, catching my stare, before he pulled a comm from his belt. He spoke into it in a low, guttural tone, the words spilling out in a language I didn't recognize. It wasn't Japanese. And it sure as hell wasn't Russian. My mind raced, my pulse spiking as I strained to listen. The accent… Italian. Italian?
I blinked, trying to make sense of it. We didn't have any business with the Italians. None. The whole idea was absurd. The Italians had never crossed our path, not directly, at least. Our business wasn't theirs, and theirs wasn't ours. There had never been an alliance between the two of us, and as far as I knew, there had been no conflict, either.
Why would the Italians be involved now?
My teeth ground together, the sharp taste of frustration building in my throat. A war between egos? Was that what this was? Were the Italians throwing their weight around for no other reason than to challenge us? What had Siege done this time? What had we done to get their attention?
I bit my tongue to keep from snapping at them. I wasn't in a position to fight back right now, and I couldn't afford to waste energy on that. But the anger in me boiled. The Italians? This was ridiculous. I had spent countless hours managing alliances and conflicts, carefully balancing the delicate webs of power. And yet here I was, facing a group of men I had no reason to be dealing with, people who had no business being here. This wasn't how it worked. This wasn't how any of it worked.
The Italians… they had no place in our world. But if they were here, it was either a message or a miscalculation. Either way, it didn't make sense. I was the one in charge of managing these things. The last thing I needed was some outside force tearing everything apart without warning. And also it was foul for any organization to disrupt another's strategy, to ruin the delicate balance that kept everything running smoothly. But then, it was also the most effective tactic when they wanted to force a particular result. The question was: what did they want from us? Why now?
The comm crackles, distorting as another voice comes through. Italian. Low, controlled, the words flowing in rapid succession. My stomach tightens. Siege had forced me to learn the languages of our alliances, and for a long time, I had clung to that knowledge like a lifeline. It made me useful. Necessary. But now, kneeling on the hard ground, sharp rocks biting into my skin, that sense of usefulness feels like a distant memory. I didn't know this language. My mind is blank, shock creeping in like a slow-moving tide.
I barely register the nod one of them gives before a rough hand clamps onto my arm. Fingers dig in, strong, unyielding, as I'm wrenched to my feet. My legs protest, stiff from kneeling too long, and for a moment, I stumble. I swallow hard, forcing my breath steady. Where are they taking me?
I turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse when one of them hoists Hule up as if he weighs nothing, slinging his unconscious body over a shoulder with effortless strength. My chest tightens. The air around me suddenly feels thinner, harder to pull into my lungs. Is he even breathing? I can't tell. I want to call out to him, to reach for him, but then—darkness.
A blindfold.
The fabric presses against my eyes, shutting out everything. My breath stutters. The absence of sight heightens everything else—the distant murmur of voices, the shuffle of boots against dirt, the tang of sweat and gun oil in the air. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out thought.
Five men. One girl.
Ice seeps into my veins. A slow, suffocating kind of terror. Every muscle in my body locks up as my mind supplies images I don't want to see, thoughts I don't want to have. It's instinct, this fear. Primal. My lungs feel too tight, my throat raw, but I don't let the panic take me.
Move.
My body coils like a spring before I slam my elbow back as hard as I can. I feel it connect, a solid, sickening impact against ribs. The man jerks, his grip slipping as he lets out a choked, pained grunt. I wrench myself free, hands flying to the back of my head, clawing at the knot. My legs burn as I push forward, my boots scraping against the ground, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Run. Just run.
But then, just as my fingers begin to loosen the knot, a sudden, searing pain explodes at the base of my skull. It's blinding, a white-hot burst that knocks the air from my lungs. My knees buckle. The world tilts. The last thing I register is the feeling of falling before the darkness swallows me whole.