Page 103 of Violent Possession

That’s a very early age, even for Seraphim. I recalculate my line of investigation. If Griffin is telling the truth, the recruitment wasn’t intentional. Not at the beginning.

I force my face not to show my surprise. Childhood doesn’t matter; what matters is what he isnow. What always matters is the next move.

“That was before he even existed to the Malakovs,” I say, trying to gauge how much of this devotion is nostalgia and how much is strategy. “Maybe he was genuine with you. But youtalk about him like he’s a religion, and I can guarantee you he’s spreading that same faith to others. Did you ever wonder if his charisma wasn’t just for you?”

Griffin shakes his head, frustrated, but doesn’t argue back. His silence is a confession. I advance, taking advantage of the opening.

“There’s a lead that he’s in places responsible for charitable donations. A tailor shop with a social purpose, churches, thrift stores. It’s consistent. I just need to confirm it. If I send my men to investigate these places, my brotherwillknow—regardless of them being mine, Griffin, those who work for the Malakovs don’t question orders from someone with that last name, and it’s not exclusive to me. But if you are really who you tell me you are... you can find the traces in the shadows.”

He remains silent for a long moment. His gaze is lost on the floor, on the new metal hand, on some point in the past that I can’t see. The anger in his shoulders seems to dissipate, replaced by a weight, a weariness that seems to come from years, not days.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, devoid of sarcasm.

“You keep trying to fit him into your boxes,” he whispers. “The manipulator, the messiah, the crime boss... he was none of that.” He finally raises his gaze to me, and there’s a raw pain there, a vulnerability he rarely lets show. “He was just a kid who didn’t know how to be less than what he was. And he was the only son of a bitch who saw me for who I am, and decided I was worth something.”

I feel the weight of what he says, and I understand the kind of debt that creates. Behind all the hatred, all the anger, there is always a hunger for recognition. Seraphim was the first to give him that. The whole world can declare war, but no one pulls out that kind of root easily.

“The orphanage was shit.” He rubs his face with his hand, trying to erase a memory. “No one cared. I was the rabid dog, always picking fights and always getting beaten up more than I dished out, because I was small. Lucian... he was different. Never had to hit anyone. He just looked, and the others would back down. And at first glance, he always seemed like a son of a bitch. He’d teach the younger kids to curse just to watch them tell the nuns to go fuck themselves later, and they were the ones who started calling him ‘Seraphim’ because of that angel face. It was meant to be an insult. An angel who did the devil’s work.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath. I’m surprised to see his hand, the prosthesis, tremble almost imperceptibly.

“Then, one day, some older kids took the last gift my mom gave me. A book of fairy tales, childish and stupid, but it was all that was left of her. I tried to get it back. But there were three of them. I lost, of course. Broke one of their noses, but they almost killed me. Left me bleeding in the back courtyard. The nuns pretended they didn’t see. They always pretended. It was always me who threw the first punch, so they’d say...consequences. Buthecame. He cleaned my blood with his own shirt. Tore his bedsheet to make a bandage. And the next day, the book was under my pillow. He didn’t ask for anything in return. Just left it. Fuck, Alexei, he was the only person who...”

He swallows hard. And says nothing more.

A thick silence. It could suffocate someone not used to it.

I think of Arthur Penhaligon’s fanatical loyalty... it all starts here. Validation. Seraphim offers recognition. He looks into the darkness within people and, instead of recoiling, he nods.

“He just...” Griffin continues, with a tired whisper, “picked up the pieces everyone else left behind. I was just the first.”

I think of Seraphim, collecting disciples, each with a different scar. I think ofmyself, wanting to use Griffin as a weapon and knowing that, deep down, I’m repeating the ritual. Thedifference is that I never promised salvation, nor do I pretend to believe in it.

“That was before,” I say, forcing logic back into it. “The boy who saved you became the man who almost killed you. Can you separate those things?”

He smiles, but his face is devastated, with no mask at all. “Separate, no. But I’m learning to live with both versions.”

I watch him for a while, waiting for the next step. He seems to shrink.

“Alright, Alexei,” he says, finally, resigned. “I’ll look for this fucking trail.”

A strange echo remains after the surrender collapses between us. It’s not a triumph for anyone.

I stretch the physical distance while Griffin is still chewing on defeat. The moment of honesty has already turned to smoke, and all that’s left now is the protocol for the next stage.

“Before you go,” I say, returning to pragmatism. He follows me with his eyes, wary, as I take a thin, black box from the inner pocket of my jacket, made of a material that reflects almost no light.

“What’s that?”

“Damage prevention,” I say, opening the box. Inside is a black silicone bracelet, unadorned, just practical. “It monitors vital signs and location. If you die or even pass out, the system will alert me immediately. I won’t lose sight of you.”

He laughs, but the sound is acidic. “New collar. You really like keeping your dogs close, Alexei.”

He extends his arm anyway, and I fit the cold bracelet onto his wrist. The magnetic clasp makes a dry noise, and I feel in the touch the tension of that moment: the installation of control under the skin, intimate. Griffin doesn’t complain anymore.

“Now, the most important part,” I continue, and I take a black access card, with no markings, from the same pocket. Iplace it in his metal hand. The carbon fiber fingers close around the object. “You can’t go back to your apartment. It’s the first place my brother would watch. And you can’t stay here. This card gives you access to a building registered to a gallery. It’s a clean front. There are two guys at the door and short shifts, with the code changed every week. It’s a reliable system that no one in my family knows exists—safer than anywhere else in the city right now. It will be our cover. Understood? And don’t leave this in your pocket when you go out.”

You can see the exact moment he understands.