I waited.
Patience wasn’t mercy. It was discipline.
Eventually, he peeled away, weaving through bodies toward the bathrooms. That was my window.
I followed him in and didn’t wait for him to finish.
I was on him while he was still pissing—hand on the back of his neck, slamming him forward, face-first into porcelain. I didn’t know yet if I was going to hurt him—it all came down to what came out of his mouth.
“You went on a date with Kira Sokolova,” I said dangerously. “She cried afterward. Explain.”
“What the fuck—” he barked, trying to turn. “Hey, man, let go—do you know who I am?”
I shoved him again. Harder.
“Answer the question.”
“You’re dead,” he spat, arrogant even with my hand crushing his neck. “My father—”
I took his head and slammed it once against the wall. Not full force. Just enough.
His nose broke with a sharp crack, followed by the wet sound of cartilage giving way, twisting his face to the side in a grotesque angle.
The bathroom door creaked open without warning. Some drunk asshole stumbling in to piss, too wasted to realize he wasn’t alone.
I didn’t even turn. Just drew the gun with my free hand—other still holding Stanislav’s collar like a leash—and pointed it dead center.
“Fuck off,” I said. “We’re having a moment.”
The guy froze, eyes wide, mumbling something unintelligible as he backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to escape.
I turned back to Stasik, who was now whimpering against the tile, blood dribbling from his broken nose.“Well, that was rude. Now, where were we? Oh right. You, bleeding. Me, asking you for the last fucking time—what did you do to her?”
“Jesus—fuck—okay, okay,” he choked. “I didn’t do anything. I just—took her hand.”
I leaned closer. “You grabbed her.”
“She pissed me off,” he snapped, still stupid enough to be offended. “What, I can’t touch my own date?”
“What did you tell her?”
He hesitated. Then, like a coward, tried to lie. “Nothing. I just said I was excited for our next date.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I growled. “She wouldn’t cry over that.”
He squirmed. “Fine. I just asked her to wear something less revealing.”
I shoved him forward again, hard enough to rattle his spine. “I told you not to fucking lie to me.”
“Okay! I told her not to dress like some desperate slut next time.”
Something inside me snapped clean.
“What did you call her?”
He didn’t get to answer.
I smashed his head into the porcelain. Once. Twice. Harder this time.
