Page 51 of Eternal

AZRA

“Street Spirit” by Radiohead

Present

I went back in again.

After another week of resting, if I could even call it that, with Kat forcing me to talk about whatever she thinks Damir and I have, nothing, for instance , and Viktor threatening him through me, with some I’ll kill him if he hurts you like I wouldn’t do it myself.

I was back in the routine.

Morning training, daytime killing, evening meals.

The cycle repeats. Again, and Again.

Days bleed into each other, weeks disappear just by blinking.

I wake up before sunrise, stretch out the stiffness, run drills until my lungs burn. Damir and I handle our assignments, visiting those who owe the Bratva, cleaning up those who can’t pay, taking fingers from those who need a warning.

Then dinner, the most exciting part of the whole week… Maybe after visiting my dogs at the bratva complex. Definitely after that.

Same place, every night, the only thing that’s changed is the food. I’d be fine eating a burrito forever, but Damir said I needed to stop being so usual and started picking new things.

So we eat, we talk, we watch the city sprawled out beneath us, and the sky upon us, then he takes me home.

He hasn’t stepped inside since that last time, two months ago. And now that I know what it feels like to have him in, I want him to come back.

Pathetic, right?

I know.

He got me used to it, his presence, the laughs on that bench, the affection, the listening without ever judging.

The only part I’m tired of is the killing.

Not the act itself, I don’t care anymore. I stopped flinching at the sight of blood a long time ago, at the sound of bones breaking, at the way flesh tears like paper when you use your knife. It doesn’t haunt me, if anything, it bores me, the system bores me.

The way it always unfolds the same way, like a script I’ve memorized too well. A hunt. A kill. A body. Repeat.

I’m tired. Not in the way that makes you stop, but in the way that makes you wonder what happens when you do.

And I know I should be focusing on my next name in the journal, but I think I’m scared.

Maybe that’s why I’m taking my time, because I know damn well that once I finish my real mission, once I cross off the last name on my list, I’ll have my answer, the answer to the only question that’s ever mattered.

And maybe I am also really scared.

Because after that , what?

I was born for this… Or at least, I made myself believe I was.

Kill everyone involved that night, all of them and make sure justice is served. But after that? After the last body drops, after the last debt is settled, what the hell am I supposed to do then?

Gosh I hate thinking…

Tonight is the same as every night.

The man in the chair is trembling, his eyes flicking between Damir and I, his chest is rising too fast, too shallow. His wrist is already a mess, twisted, bent where Damir snapped it back an hour ago.

We gave him time. We always do. Time to pay, time to beg. But time runs out.

“Still nothing?” Damir asks, crouching to meet the man’s frantic gaze. He looks okay with this. I thought he’d be less normal with his new job as an enforcer, I thought he lied about his past but maybe he was honest and I’m too paranoid.

His voice is even, smooth, but his fingers are already reaching for the pliers on the table.

The man chokes out a sound, something between a sob and a plea, his forehead presses to the back of his bound hands. “Please… I just need more time, I swear, just…”

More time… More time…

I exhale through my nose. The same thing. The same script. Bored. Fucking bored.

“Time’s up,” I say flatly.

Damir nods, he grips the man’s hand, pressing it to the armrest, fingers splayed on the surface. The man thrashes, tries to pull away, but I press a boot to his knee, and he stills with a whimper.

The pliers make a sharp, scraping noise as Damir adjusts his grip. Then, a crack. A scream. A pinky twisting the wrong way.

I barely blink.

If he still can’t pay, we’ll take more, a finger, a hand, a life. The order depends on how useful he is to the Bratva.

The cycle repeats, it always repeats. And then we leave him.

“We’ll come back in a week. And if you want to use your hand again, make sure you have the money this time.” My voice is calm, almost bored, as I glance down at him, bloodied, shaking, but still breathing.

I turn to Damir, and see that he’s leaning against the door, knife still dripping, watching me. Head tilted. Smiling? No, not quite, it’s more of a lazy, assessing gaze.

The drive back is silent tonight, or maybe I’m simply too deep in my head…

The city blurs past in a smear of neon and shadows, wind biting at my skin as I cut through the streets. I love it. The rush. The cold sting.

Damir’s beside me, always close enough, his bike growling low next to mine. I can feel him watching me, even with the visor down, he’s always too close, but never quite close enough.

At a red light, we slow to stop, and I glance at him. He lifts his visor, that soft cocky grin is already in place, and I know he’s going to say something.

“You’re thinking too much, partner ,” he says.

I snort, shaking my head. “I’d say not enough but whatever.”

“Nah. You think so much it’s starting to worry me.” he presses, tilting his head slightly.

I scoff, but he keeps looking at me like he’s waiting for me to crack a bit. And I do. My lips twitch at the corners, a ghost of a laugh that I can’t stop even if I try.

“I really like your smile,” he murmurs, like I did something rare, something worth marveling at.

He really needs to stop.

I shake my head, but my chest feels warm, he does this, makes me feel lighter without trying, I should hate it, maybe I do, a little, but I don’t want him to stop.

Without warning, Damir’s hand is on my helmet, he lifts my visor up, and his eyes catch mine.

“What are you doing?” I blink, taken by surprise.

His expression softens for a second, the coldness fading, and his voice drops, rougher than usual. “ Partner , hasn’t anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?”

The words hit me differently this time. I hated them for so long. The way it made me look monstrous as a kid. I stare at him for a moment, my heart rate picking up despite myself, but I can’t stop the laugh coming out of my throat again, louder this time.

Fuck , why is my heart not bored of this man?

“You’re full of shit, you know that?”

He grins, a small, smug smile that makes my stomach flip. “Maybe.” He pauses, his gaze flickering over my face, as if trying to read me. “But I’m pretty sure you’re about to put me up against a wall if I keep talking like this. I might keep doing it because I really like your eyes.”

“You like pain? New kink to add to the list then.”

Damir doesn’t say anything else, but I can feel the change in him, the way his posture relaxes slightly, the way his eyes flicker with something almost amused. “Yes. Please write it down to never forget, it would be a shame. Maybe in a few months we’ll try them together. Team-bonding .”

The light turns green.

Without a word, Damir kicks up his throttle and pulls ahead. I scowl, but my lips tug into a smile despite myself. “ Idiot, ” I mutter under my breath, pushing forward and following him into the night.

His presence fades first, but my smile sticks for a second too long, like I forgot myself. Then I look down trying to understand why every time he’s kind to me, I feel guilty.

My hands. My gloves covering my sins up, I know my knuckles are stiff, with some blood dried in the cracks. I’ve killed with these hands, too many times to count, and yet, I was just laughing, like I deserve to, like I’m someone who can.

It’s happening again.

I left. Trained. Fought. Hoped .

And nothing’s changed.

Nothing .

I wake up, I follow orders, I pull the trigger, I wipe the blade clean, then I go home.

And they’re still dead.

All of them, dead, gone, buried, bones in the ground while I’m still here, still breathing, still pretending any of this means something.

My hands are the same, stained, cracked, and destroyed from a life that never stopped being cruel. My body is tired. My mind was never coming back.

And my heart… My heart still beats .

Like it doesn’t remember how it broke, like it doesn’t care, like it hasn’t figured out it’s got nothing left to beat for.

I close my eyes for a second, breathing, trying not to think about how I still know nothing, no new leads. No new names. Only the same fucking cycle over and over, swallowing me whole.

Kill them. Even if it’s immoral. Repeat.

We’re in front of the HQ, our bikes parked outside, and he’s already cleaning his gun and mine. At first, I hated when he cleaned my guns. As if I couldn’t do it myself. I never asked him for help, I always did it alone.

I hated it. The way he always took his time, like it was some kind of ritual. But now? Now I’m sitting on the table, feet dangling off the edge, watching him. It’s almost… calming .

My body is relaxed, and my mind is overthinking but less painfully.

His t-shirt clings to his body, and the tattoos that cover his arms seem to catch my attention with every movement.

He’s focused, his long fingers working the gun with precision.

His hands are veiny, strong, and when he runs the cloth over the barrel, it’s almost too intimate.

The way his hands touch the metal so gently…

I can feel it in my chest. He’s got this slow, methodical rhythm to his movements, like he’s savoring the moment, and maybe I’m savoring it, too.

God, it’s been so long since someone touched me like that.

And now, working with him, breathing the same air… it’s suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

Because he’s a man . And he’s taking care of me . And it’s too much.