What followed wasn’t quick.
By the time I was done, the apartment smelled like iron and sweat, and I was slick with his blood. He didn’t scream anymore. Not through the tape, anyway. Just choked sounds and the wet noise of pain. Pakhan would be pleased.
I washed my hands in the sink until the water ran clear. Dried them. Then I wiped every handle I’d touched, every surface, slow and thorough. Clean work mattered.
I picked up the folder from the couch and tucked it under my arm.Maybe I’d read it later. Maybe I’d burn it.
When I left, I didn’t hide what I’d done. I left him where he was, broken and unmistakable.
Let the rats clean it up. Let the neighbors talk. Let whoever finds him put two and two together and start sleeping with the lights on.
3
Off-Limits
—Maksym—
Iwoke up early, rested, steady. No dreams, no guilt, no twitch in the hands—just that familiar, heavy stillness that always followed a clean job.
I trained first. The mat was laid out as always, the space quiet and focused. The pull-up bar was bolted into the wall with exact precision, the free weights lined in perfect order. The leather punching bag swung under my fists with satisfying resistance. I didn’t need a fancy gym. Just a place where I could sweat and burn and feel every inch of control press back into my muscles.
By the time I finished, my shirt was soaked through and my arms hummed with fatigue. I got in the shower—hot, fast, likeripping off a bandage. No indulgence. Just a scrub-down and the comfort of feeling like myself again.
After the shower, I kept the routine moving. I ground beans into powder and let the coffee drip—black as ink. I cooked eggs, seared sausage, buttered thick bread.I was halfway through my plate when the news came on.
“...the body of what appears to be Alexey Ostapenko, a mid-ranking officer in Kyiv’s anti-smuggling division, was found in his apartment early this morning.”
I took another bite of sausage.
“The body was reportedly disfigured beyond recognition. No signs of forced entry. No known suspects at this time.”
The anchor didn’t blink. Just read the cue card like it was weather.
“The incident has sparked quiet concern in law enforcement circles, though official statements have not yet been released.”
That was more than enough.
I turned the volume down and kept eating.
This wasn’t just a report.
It was a warning.
Now the whole country knew exactly what happened to men who got too curious.
And more importantly, they knew who’d done it.
The Reaper had a new employer.
Istarted working for Pakhan officially that week.
There wasn’t any ceremony, no warm welcome or raised glasses. Just a stack of new folders on the desk, more names to learn, more instructions to follow.
I never expected praise—not from a man like him, and not in this world. I didn’t need it anyway. What I needed was motion. Purpose. The next task to sink my teeth into.
The jobs started coming quickly.
Collecting debts from a crooked MP hiding cash in his grandmother’s name. Dragging a former enforcer out of a poker den after he thought he could run his own side hustle on Pakhan’s turf. He cried for mercy—I gave him a dislocated jaw. And more shit to deal with—always more. A never-ending to-do list written in blood and fear.
