Page 11 of Eternal

DAMIR

“Monsters” by Tommee Profitt, XEAH

Present

I ’ve never been surrounded by women.

My mother left when I was born. Maybe I was an accident. Maybe she just didn’t want a child, or maybe my father was an asshole who made her hate the entire species of men.

Nonetheless she never wanted me. So, I held on to that idea: maybe I’m not warm enough to be around women.

They’re complex, strange and smart. But there’s something about them, this warmth they carry.

A softness, an energy, and yet… It was never enough to draw me in emotionally.

It’s not that I was uninterested; I was too busy with my work, if you can call it that. Killing people for money has always been my reality. It’s what I was born to do, and I’ve embraced it with both hands. No woman has ever captivated me long enough for me to think about feeling.

Until now. I’m… Curious.

She’s interesting, so painfully interesting, it’s making me mad.

What do you call a man who intends to kill a woman he finds so achingly attractive? A maniac maybe?

Following her since last Friday has become my twisted pastime, and we haven’t even spoken. What does that say about me? That I can find pleasure in the dark while plotting her death?

Maybe.

Long, deep brown curly hair cascades down her back, framing that beautiful face that could launch a thousand obsessions. I know it because I can’t stop watching her.

I study the way her eyes narrow in concentration when she throws heavy punches, the way her chest rises and falls with every blow.

Yesterday, she was even more… interesting with blood splattered across her face and t-shirt.

There’s something sexy about a woman smiling in the aftermath of pure violence. She demolishes her opponent in today’s underground bratva fight.

She’s not really tall or really muscular, but the rage she shows is almost insane, even psychotic .

I can see the intelligence in her movements, the way she anticipates her opponent's every strike.

At every break, my gaze follows her fingers as they trace the scar running from her jaw to the base of her neck. Long, red, and beautiful… it calls to me.

I don’t know where it came from, but it doesn’t matter. It’s almost old, faded but still vivid enough to make me wonder who dared to mark her. Every time she touches it, something dark stirs within me, probably a fascination for something so beautifully dangerous.

I’m torn between the desire to reach out and touch it and the urge to keep my distance, to remain hidden in the crowd and keep my eyes on her.

When the fight ends, she offers a shy smile to the crowd. She was so proud of herself, so relieved to have almost killed a man double her size.

For a short moment, I sense her awareness of my gaze. I’m watching her from beneath my hood, and I can’t help but mirror her smile. She’s vigilant, and that only deepens my fascination.

Smart targets are my weakness; they challenge me. When her striking blue and green eyes scan the crowd, searching for the source of her unease, I nearly chuckle.

I’m here, Voron. I’m everywhere you are and everywhere you’ll be.

Those plump lips, pursed in concentration, that red scar glowing under the artificial lights. In an ephemeral blink, our eyes meet in the dark, and she winks. She simply winks, and I crack my knuckles, trying to contain my need to smile again, wider this time.

Voron is driving me insane.

I’ve shadowed her every day for a week now, and there’s something primal in the amusement she brings.

She wakes at dawn, rising at 5 a.m. and returning home at 2 a.m. I doubt she sleeps much, but she never looks tired or weak.

She always runs for an hour before spending her day in Bratva’s basement, either training or working on something.

Yesterday I perched on a hill with my sniper rifle, watching her as she played with dogs. Two dobermans. The hot July sunlight glinting over her dark hair and olive skin.

Through the lens, I saw her sitting on the floor, laughter blending with the dog's barks. But then, I noticed something deeper in her eyes, an emptiness that clawed at my gut.

No tears, just raw, unfiltered loneliness.

I was trained to see it, to recognize the scars buried beneath bravado.

I watched her jaw clench as she closed the journal she had been reading for a few minutes, a flash of sorrow crossed her face before Viktor Rogov and his sister, Katarina Rogov, appeared, handing her a note.

Viktor took over in Vegas a few years back after his father’s death. The current pakhan, Elijah, named him to command this city.

Voron kissed Katarina’s cheek and hugged Viktor briefly before heading out, on her bike. I quickly put away my rifle and grabbed my bike to follow her. But she sped up, like she could sense I was there, or maybe she’s only reckless. Either way, she looked damn good in that helmet.

What kind of twisted man am I to see blood and chaos intertwined with a pretty face and think, Mmm, she might look good kissing me.

I could ask her things while she’s under me. What’s your name? Why are you doing this? Why do you look so pretty, and why the hell are you so curiously interesting? Should I kill you?

I’m going insane .

It’s only been a week of watching her, and she’s already started to hypnotize me.

After her fight today, she slid back onto her bike and I watched from afar, puffing on a cigarette, my mask pulled tight against the upper half of my face.

She sauntered into a shop, taking her time, and I waited.

My sweet target emerged with bags of food.

She immediately returned to the bratva complex without a glance back, slipping inside like a phantom.

No hellos for her friend, only a quick feed for the dog and then straight to her apartment.

I could see her from where I lingered, smoking and thumbing through that journal again. It seemed like she was stuck on the same page for days, lost in a world only she could understand.

What was hidden in those pages? What thoughts consumed her? What made her who she is now? And why the fuck do I even care?

Maybe it's because this gaze is familiar to me. I recognized that rage, that anger. The notion that blood was the only balm for the scars etched on her soul resonates deep within me.

I craved it, embraced it, just as she did.

Hurting others made them mirrors of my own pain.

It might be egotistical, but why should we be the only ones suffering in this stupid world? If everyone endured the same anguish, pain would lose its meaning.

The thought of meeting her excites me, a lot. But I need to get ready for that. I need new tattoos, a fresh identity for this mission, I guess.

My reflection grins back at me when I decide to cut all my hair off. I should be following her home, studying her movements, the way she fights, the way she senses danger.

Fuck, she gave me hell simply by stalking her today.

I had to be extra careful because her fucking instincts are sharp.

But now, I need to focus on reinventing myself. I’ll keep my real name, Damir.

How ironic that it means giver of peace when chaos is my only offering.

Damir. It’s been years since I’ve used it. Most know me as Viper or Commandant.

I’ve almost forgotten how it feels to hear my own name.

I entered the tattoo parlor a few hours later, the sterile smell of ink and needles hitting me instantly. I find the chair and settle in, glancing at my inked hands. Pain doesn’t bother me; this body is merely a container for my mind.

But I wanted new ones. I always do that. Every new mission, a new tattoo.

“ Svoboda cherez smert ,” I whisper, the words echoing in my chest. Freedom through death.

It’s the truth I cling to.

For me, death isn’t an end; it’s liberation. It’s a release from a life suffocated by torment, solitude, and rage.

God I’m depressing sometimes.

As the needle pierces my skin, I lean into the sting, imagining the quote stretching across my spine, winding around my neck. Eyes, too, just underneath, one clearer than the other.

Why was it so easy to do this? As if it was instinctive, as if I already knew what I wanted.

Fuck, she’s already in my head.

When the final stroke of ink settles, I lock eyes with my reflection, the ink still glistening against my skin. I’m ready to claim my next target.

A few moments later, I pull out my phone, the name Lev flickering on the screen, the traitor in the Bratva who’s been my informant since day one.

I hit the call button, pressing my back against the wall. It takes a moment before he answers.

“Damir?”

“I’m ready,” I say, quickly.

A silence hangs between us, heavy and charged. “Once you’re in, there’s no turning back.”

“I have everything I need.”

“Good. Tomorrow then. I’ll be waiting in front of the basement.”

“Count on it.”

As the call disconnects, my thoughts shift to our first meeting coming.

She’ll think she’s meeting someone new. Sweet Voron has no idea who’s about to step into her life.

I can almost feel her presence already, the way it will seep into my world and twist everything I thought I knew.

My last mission. Better be unforgettable.

How will she change me? How will I change her?

The only thing I’m certain of is, I can’t wait to find out.