Page 12

Kael

T he sharp echo of Kael’s zippo reverberates through the cramped room, a discordant whisper slithering through the silence.

Each metallic resonation grates against his patience, marking another wasted second, another moment the man before him refuses to speak the truth.

Click…. clunk…. click... clunk…

Flame dances onto the tip of the zippo when he switches it on, a ghostly wiggle of smoke when it goes off.

“Five,” click. “Four.” clunk. “Three.” click. “Two.” clunk.

“One.”

Tossing the golden zippo into his pocket, he uncrosses his legs then rises gently from the wooden chair he has been sitting on.

Towering over the familiar soldier, his six-foot-five frame causes the man to cower in fear.

But here is the harsh fact; even if he digs himself a hole and hides inside, he is not escaping death today…unless, of course, he throws loyalty out the window and gives Kael all the information he needs—why he snuck into their empire posed as one of their soldiers, only to break into the office and steal the key to his destruction; the ledger.

Kael needs to know who sent him for such a reckless job and what they promised him in return that he was ready to smear his loyalty to the Pythons.

“I believe you have something to tell me.” Kael turns to the bloodied 25-year-old soldier, his arched brow raised expectantly.

“I don’t know anything,” he utters the same phrase he has been repeating since he got here. Kael supposes they haven’t quite made any progress at all. And this alone riles him up. So what has he been sitting here for five minutes for?

Anger sparks like wildfire in his chest, fury that makes his head swim with discord.

Five minutes isn’t just a chance, it’s a promise, an oath so sacred. Yet he has failed to realize it. And now there is an enchanting whisper tucked in the air between them. Death.

Kael is going to kill this man before him. And he is going to enjoy the five minutes of it.

“Very well then.” His hand drifts toward the table on his left, fingers grazing the cool surface before settling on a round tray of gleaming instruments—scalpels, daggers, scissors, a cutlass, an axe, and other sharp metals, each reflecting the dim light.

Today, Kael feels like scissors.

He selects a pair etched with the emblem of the Bratva—a python’s head, its fangs bared in a silent warning.

The soldier chokes out a gasp, pure terror settling in the depth of his eyes. And seeing the fear and the horror in those brown eyes plants euphoria in Kael’s veins, his fingers trembling with the new level of power unlocked.

If the soldier is truly innocent, Kael doesn’t care anymore. Because now, he wants blood. He has been starving for it for weeks, craving the helpless cry of agony, the satisfying sound of metal slicing through flesh, all the while locked away in Raidon’s shadow. But today, he is getting all of it. His hunger will be satiated.

Positioning himself behind his new prey, Kael’s fingers gently curl under the man’s chin, titling his head to bare the flesh on his neck to him.

“I guess this is goodbye.”

“Please—” before the word can have a chance to be heard by another ear, a continuous squelching sound of metal piercing through flesh echoes in the room as Kael repeatedly drives the scissors into his jugular.

The man gurgles as blood oozes in waves from the miscellaneous holes on his neck. And he grapples for air, his frail hands thaw relentlessly at his own neck, desperate for a chance to save himself from the death glaring at him.

It takes nearly five minutes indeed, just as Kael has prophesied, for the man to hit the floor.

And as he hovers over the paling body of his former soldier, not a sliver of regret dares to tug at his conscience, and rather, a twisted smile lifts the corner of his lips, power surging through his veins, watching the faint tremor in the man’s fingers as life leaves him finally.

“You’re wrong again, preacher,” he murmurs, the scissors hitting the floor with a loud clatter. “Destiny has no role to play in their deaths. They died only because I wanted them to die. I am higher than any so-called destiny.”

A year ago at St. Joseph’s cathedral—the Volkov family’s sacred ground—Kael stands beneath the vaulted ceilings, air thick with incense and whispered prayers. It’s Eugene Volkov’s burial, the man who has raised Kael and his twin brother, Raidon. The man they have both called father for over twenty years.

Father Thomas stands at the pulpit, solemn and unwavering, his voice echoing through the cavernous church.

“Eugene Volkov died because it was written in his destiny,” Father Thomas proclaims. “All who perish do so at destiny’s decree.”

But Kael remembers vividly. He remembers the gurgle of a severed throat, the warmth of blood spilling over his hands, the final rattling breath as Eugene Volkov’s life seeps away on the cold office floor.

Destiny he says?

Who is she? This nameless, faceless thing they so willingly bow to? Did she hold the blade with him that night? Did she whisper in Eugene Volkov’s ears as Kael carved the old man’s fate into his flesh?

No.

Only Kael played god that night. And yet Father Thomas credited his work to some unseen force, absolving the guilty with the poetry of fate.

Maybe if Father Thomas sees this soldier now—and the countless other men whose lives he has taken in the past—he will credit it to destiny again. Fucking destiny .

But it is not destiny. Never that faceless, nonexistent entity.

It’s Kael.

Has always been Kael. Because when it comes to your life, Kael won’t leave it to destiny or fate. He would be fate. He will be destiny, the devil, even God—whatever it will take to decide how your story ends.

An ominous breeze circles around the dead soldier’s body; death, who has come to collect another soul, the second one he will be collecting in this room today. And this won’t be the last. A hunger has been awoken. Kael won’t stop until mangled bodies lie around, eyes hollow, fingers splintered, the city painted with their blood.

And tomorrow morning, he will purchase the Moscow Chronicles—the popular newspaper—just to be sure tonight’s escapade has been documented:

‘The Crimson Artisan Strikes Again’.

They better get the details of the murders right this time. His mind reels back to the favorite quote he has ever read. That one is dated back to eight years ago.

‘The Crimson Artisan, a killer with a surgical hand, and an artist’s eye. Each body is his canvas, each mutilation a masterpiece.’

Kael tucked the Moscow Chronicles edition that featured that particular article in a safe deep inside the closet. It’s a treasure, a precious art he must protect. If he ever gets irrelevant and forgotten, he will pull it out and remind them again why he shouldn’t be forgotten.

A staccato of footsteps reverberates in the room as two soldiers file in on cue to do what they know without being told; they will take the body, strip it for anything of value—the organs, if they are in good condition—sell them for millions, then toss whatever is left into the incinerator, reducing it to nothing but ashes.

While the soldiers circle the body, Kael feels a vibration in his pocket. A bloodied hand slips into the pocket only to return with a cell phone.

Veronica , the caller’s ID, reads, and a devious smile lifts the corner of his lips.

“Veronica,” he hums, his tongue curled inward and pressing against the wall of his left cheek.

Wicked, mean ideas swivel in his sick, twisted head at the idea of who this Veronica is. How nice that her name is even saved with a heart beside it.

He knows he didn’t save this number, which only means one thing ; while he was chained away as always, his twin brother, Raidon, has been very busy.

Kael never knew Raidon Volkov had it in him. A girlfriend? Since when? Who would’ve thought Raidon Volkov, a social recluse, hates being touched, a virgin at thirty-two, would ever have a girlfriend?

Kael’s thoughts spiral. Is this why he stumbled across a record of two unwarranted trips to the United States within a month—none which were for work? He remembers finding it very unusual when he saw the records earlier today. The last time he checked, he and his twin brother particularly hate that country because people are always trying to kill them.

So, is this Veronica the reason for Raidon’s trips? Has Kael’s twin brother, his other half, his other self, fallen in love?

A sick kind of amusement slithers through Kael as he finally swipes at the screen to answer the call.

But before he can even speak, a violent, thrashing sensation rips through his skull. His vision distorts, twisting at the end like heat waves over burning asphalt. A weight presses against his mind, a force clawing and shoving at the walls of his consciousness.

That son of a bitch.

Raidon is trying to take back control.

Barely twenty-four hours since Kael finally emerged and already the fucker wants to snatch back control from him? The audacity almost makes Kael laugh. For God’s sake, Raidon intentionally chained him for weeks, smothering his existence like he is some filthy secret. And now, when he has finally stepped back into his rightful place, he is being forced to return to the shadow?

Why?

Because of her?

Now that Kael knows about the little girlfriend, is Raidon afraid? Trying to protect her from him? Is that why he kept him locked away for weeks now? Why he turned reckless enough for the ledger that held their entire empire within its pages to be stolen away right from under his nose?

Kael inhales sharply, each question answering itself. He grits his teeth, his fingers twitching on his side.

His muscles are rigid with barely contained fury.

For weeks he has been locked away, curled up in the darkness with no sound and no color. When he finally stepped out, he barely had time to go hunting for prey, and instead, was stuck searching desperately for a ledger whose disappearance has nothing to do with him but his stupid brother. And now that stupid brother is trying to take back control of him?

That pathetic love-struck fool. Got carried away playing Prince Charming that he lost the fucking ledger.

Kael’s gaze flickers to the corpse sprawled a few feet away. The soldiers are still trying to figure out how to haul him away. Blood still pools beneath the body, soaking into the cracks of the concrete, the scent dancing in the air like a metallic perfume.

The sight soothes Kael. Just a little, though.

“Hello?” a feminine voice whispers from the phone clenched in his bloody and sticky hand. “Are you still there? Hi? Hello?”

Kael’s lips curl in a slow, dangerous grin.

Does she even know she is talking to someone else? That the man she has been giggling with over the phone is gone since last night? That she is now speaking to his wicked twin brother?

His fingers tighten around the phone, wishing it’s that delicate vein in her neck fluttering beneath the weight of his hold.

“Will you, um, ever intentionally hurt or kill anyone?” There is caution in her tone, hesitance masked in an attempt at casualness, like she is asking about the state of the weather and not if he is capable of murder.

Kael’s gaze floats back to the body the soldiers are finally hauling out of the room, then his eyes return to the red and sticky stain coating his fingers.

“Do you think I’d ever do such a thing?” His voice drips with mockery, silky smooth but wrong.

He hears her sigh. So fucking oblivious.

“Right? Shiro can be so out of pocket sometimes. He was like, ‘what if you’re in the Mafia and you know Mafias like to kill people, and I was like ‘geez, he can’t even hurt a freaking fly. I mean, he’s a soldier but still, he can’t kill people just like that—”

Her words begin to blur, stretch, and warp. A high-pitched ringing screeches in his head. Kael staggers.

“Boss?” A hand catches his shoulder, firm and grounding. His phone is ripped from his hand, and the sudden absence of weight in his palm infuriates him.

The scent of peppermint and smoke fills his nostrils. It’s Riccardo Gambino—the person holding him. He is their third-in-command. Their half-sister’s son.

“I am—” Kael tries to speak, but his tongue feels swollen, his mouth heavy, wrong.

Then suddenly, the momentary paralysis. For a split second, he feels nothing.

He isn’t dying, for sure. But he knows this feeling. Raidon is still trying to force himself out.

Fucking again.

Kael’s body tenses, every muscle locking as rage floods his veins. His twin brother, that self-righteous bastard, is trying to smother him again like he is some plague, trying to erase him because of her. That fucking girl out of nowhere.

A woman.

A fragile, little thing.

Has Raidon really lost himself to some fairytale? And why is he so desperate to keep him away from this girl? Does he think that he is unworthy of her?

That alone snaps something inside Kael. A wire pulled too fucking tight. His fingers twitch with the phantom sensation of wrapping around someone’s throat.

He will not be discarded.

He will not be locked away like some unwanted memory, all because of a girl from nowhere. He will not be denied his right.

Since Raidon is so desperate to keep this girl hidden, Kael will have no choice but to meet her. After all, he never really did what his brother wanted in the past. He will not be doing it now.

Kael needs to meet her. If Raidon really thinks Kael doesn’t deserve to meet the girl, then he must meet her. That resolve alone twists his lips into something vicious. If she is the reason his brother is trying to bury him alive, then she must be deliciously dangerous.

His vision flickers, the word tilting. His mind thrashes against the pull, against the hands dragging him into the abyss.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Not yet—

Darkness. Then silence.

But not for long.

Kael grins into the void.

This is not over.

Oh, not by a long shot.

The next time he takes control, the story will be different from this.

Raidon needs to watch his back.