Location: Kuvitich Headquarters — RX's Private Suite — Night
The suite was a monument to excess.
Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Chandeliers that dripped crystal tears. Walls paneled in dark wood, hung with paintings that cost more than most people's homes. A fireplace crackled at the far end, its flames casting dancing shadows across the ceiling.
RX sat behind his desk.
His name was Roman Volkov. His face was square, jowled, with a scar that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. His hair was silver, slicked back, shining under the chandelier's light. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, its smoke curling toward the ceiling in lazy spirals.
He wore a tracksuit—black, expensive, the kind that athletes wore to press conferences. A gold chain hung around his neck. A watch the size of a small clock weighed down his wrist.
Roman's eyes were fixed on the screen.
A laptop sat on his desk, its display glowing. The footage was grainy—CCTV, pulled from the Volchok's security system. The man in the hood. The black surgical mask. The way he moved, the way he struck, the way the guards fell without a sound.
The Huxain, Roman thought. The one who ruined everything.
The footage played again.
The man walked through the entrance. The guards approached. He shook his head. His hands moved. The guards fell.
The man walked through the casino floor. The music played. The gamblers didn't notice.
The man reached the private room. The six guards. The way the air around him seemed to freeze.
What is that? Roman thought. Some kind of weapon? Some kind of... trick?
The man raised the pistol. Fired. Sergei's knee exploded.
The man walked to the laptop. His fingers moved across the keyboard. The code changed. The machines on the public floor began to pay out.
The man walked out.
His hips swayed. His shoulders rolled. His mask slipped.
His face—the Huxain face, the one with the deeper skin and the narrower eyes—was visible for a single frame.
Roman's hand shot out.
His fingers closed around the laptop's screen. He pulled. The hinges screamed. The plastic cracked. The screen tore away from the keyboard.
He threw it against the wall.
The screen shattered. Glass sprayed across the floor. The chandelier trembled.
"You mean to tell me," Roman said, "that I now have debts—debts summounting millions—that I owe to ordinary losers?"
His voice was low. Rumbling. The voice of a man who had spent years learning how to make words sound like weapons.
"Because some Huxain showed up unannounced? Because he managed to take out my men? Because he managed to screw me over?"
He turned.
His eyes found Dmitri.
Dmitri was standing near the door. His forehead was wrapped in a bandage, white gauze stained with a spot of red that had seeped through. His hands were clasped behind his back. His face was pale.
"I—"
Roman's hand shot out.
His fingers closed around Dmitri's throat.
Not hard. Just... there.
"I—I—"
Dmitri's words were choked. His hands rose—not to fight, to plead. His fingers brushed against Roman's wrist. His nails scraped the skin.
Roman squeezed.
The bones in Dmitri's neck ground together. His eyes bulged. His mouth opened. No sound came out.
His body went limp.
Roman held him for a moment longer.
Then he let go.
Dmitri collapsed.
His body hit the floor. His head struck the marble. His limbs sprawled.
The other men in the room—Anton, Mikhail, Viktor—did not move. Their faces were masks. Their eyes were fixed on Roman. Their hands were at their sides.
"I busted my ass," Roman said. "Working as a bouncer in St. Petersburg. Earning merits. Fighting for every scrap of respect."
He paced.
"The man in charge—the one who decided who lived and who died—he saw something in me. He trusted me. He gave me the Kuvitich."
He stopped.
"Decades. Decades of hard work. Decades of building. Decades of making sure that the money flowed and the enemies fell."
His eyes found Dmitri's body.
"And now? Now it's all compromised. Ruined. Because of the incompetence of him and his lame buddies."
He spat.
"That is a sin. A disaster. Not worth forgiving."
The room was silent.
Anton's throat moved.
"The Huxain bitch," Roman continued. "She and I don't always see eye to eye. But we respect each other's privacy. Each other's boundaries."
He lit a new cigar.
"But she decided to provoke the bear. Thinking it doesn't have claws. Thinking it doesn't have the energy to fight back."
He inhaled.
Smoke filled his lungs.
"Well now she's going to feel my rage."
Anton stepped forward.
"Should we inform the senior? His warlock mind could help find a solution. Something is suspicious about all of this."
Roman's eyes narrowed.
"The senior?"
"He would know what to do. He could—"
"No."
Roman's voice was flat.
"This is my problem. I will solve it. My way."
---
The door opened.
A young man walked in.
His name was Leon. His face was smooth, unmarked. His suit was gray, expensive, tailored to hide the bulge of the pistol at his hip. He carried a small plastic bag in his hand.
"Sir," he said. "We found this at the Volchok. Dropped by the assailant."
Roman's eyebrow rose.
"Dropped?"
"Yes, sir. Near the entrance. It must have fallen from his pocket during the..."
He paused.
"...during the commotion."
Roman took the bag.
Inside, a phone.
Black. Matte. The screen was cracked—not from the fall, from something else. A fist. Pressure. Rage.
"Whose is it?"
"We don't know, sir. It's not registered. No SIM card. But—"
The phone buzzed.
The screen lit up.
An unknown number.
Roman's thumb pressed the answer button.
He held the phone to his ear.
---
"Why didn't you answer the call?"
The voice was female. Impatient. The voice of someone who was used to being obeyed.
"Did you do as I asked?"
Roman's pupils constricted.
His breath caught.
His hand tightened on the phone.
The other men in the room—Anton, Mikhail, Viktor, Leon—exchanged glances. Their faces were pale. Their hands were at their sides.
"You," Roman said.
His voice was low.
"You slut."
His breathing was heavy.
His eyes were wide.
The voice on the other end was calm.
"Is that any way to talk to a partner?"
"You think this is a partnership? You think—"
"I think you need to calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down!"
Roman's free hand slammed against the desk.
The wood cracked.
---
Back at the Muchachos, Elijah sat in a chair.
His face was Diego's—soft, round, forgettable. His hands were folded in his lap. His eyes were half-closed.
Around his neck, a small device.
Black. Metallic. The size of a thumb.
A voice box, he had called it. Found it in Azaqor's pocket space. In the building with the glass walls and the floating screens.
It can mimic any voice. Any tone. Any accent.
All you need is a sample.
And I had plenty.
His lips moved.
The voice that came out was not his.
It was hers.
Ch1. The woman from the Long Walk. The one who had been plotting with Roman. The one who had been feeding him information.
"You're angry," Elijah said.
His voice—her voice—was calm.
"I understand."
"You understand?" Roman's voice was barely controlled. "You understand? You—"
"I understand that you're scared."
"I'm not scared!"
"You should be."
Elijah's expression didn't change.
But behind his eyes, something flickered.
---
Andreas sat in the corner.
His hands were folded in his lap. His eyes were fixed on Elijah. His face was the face of a man who had not slept in days.
He's not human, Andreas thought. He's not Diego. He's not even—
He's something else.
Something that wears faces like clothes.
Something that puts centipedes in people's bodies and makes them obey.
It's like those science fiction movies. The ones where the alien mother takes over the hosts. Slowly. Quietly. Eating their consciousness from the inside.
And we're the hosts.
We're all the hosts.
His hand moved to his mouth.
His nail pressed against his teeth.
Alma watched him.
Her expression was the face of someone who had seen too much and was no longer surprised.
"Jefe," she said. "Are you alright?"
"Fine."
"You're biting your nails again."
"I'm fine."
Arturo shook his head.
"He's not fine. He's been like this for days."
"Since the centipede," Alma said.
"Since Diego."
They watched Andreas.
Andreas didn't notice.
His eyes were still on Elijah.
His teeth were still pressing against his nails.
---
Roman's voice was raw.
"You are the most cunning snake I have ever crossed paths with. Your plan was marvelous. Really. Almost perfect."
He paused.
"If it weren't for the incompetent blunder of the poser you sent to—"
"Roman."
Elijah's voice—her voice—was calm.
"It's not what you think."
"Not what I think? Not what I—"
"You need to listen to me."
"I don't need to do anything!"
"You need to listen."
Roman was silent.
His breathing was heavy. His hand was shaking.
"You don't know what you've started," he said.
His voice was low.
"Tit for tat. That's fair. Don't blame me for what comes next."
He paused.
"It's on you, you bitch."
He threw the phone against the wall.
The screen shattered. The battery flew across the room. The back cover spun through the air.
The phone hit the floor.
Silence.
---
Elijah lowered his hand from the voice box.
His expression was calm.
His eyes were half-closed.
"Well," he said.
His voice was his own again.
"That went better than expected."
He leaned back in his chair.
His posture was loose. Relaxed. The posture of a man who had just checked something off his to-do list.
Andreas watched him.
Alma watched him.
Arturo watched him.
Everything is going according to plan, Elijah thought.
The bear is angry. The bitch is confused. And the pieces are moving exactly where I want them to go.
He smiled.
Not a nice smile.
The smile of a man who had already won.
---