It wasn’t the kind that crept in gently or lingered at the edges.It was the kind that settled into your bones and resided there happily—sharp, unforgiving, impossible to ignore.It was bitter and biting and stripped weakness from a man whether he wanted it gone or not.
Our father believed in it like it was a religion.He always said that comfort made men soft.
He claimed that pain reminded you of who you were.So we trained in it.In wind and rain.Ice and snow.There was never an in-between.
The yard stretched wide behind the estate, nothing but packed earth and frost-bitten ground, ringed by steel fencing and men who had long since forgotten what sunlight felt like against their skin.Snow clung to the edges, trampled into grey slush where boots had carved paths through it.
I stood opposite Rasputin.
My brother grinned like he was enjoying himself.
Where I measured, he burned.Where I calculated, he destroyed.It made him unpredictable, dangerous.My father thought it made him a problem.
“Again,” Viktor said.
Our father never raised his voice, because there simply wasn’t a need.
His command cut clean through the air, sharper than the cold.
Rasputin lunged first.As always.
He came at me like a storm—fast, reckless, all force and no restraint.His boots hit the ground hard, shoulders driving forward, hands already reaching to grab, to break, to overwhelm.
I stepped aside.Just far enough to let his momentum carry him past the point of control.
Then I struck.Precise.
Two hits—one to the ribs, one to the jaw.They were measured and effective, because I didn’t believe in wasting energy.
He staggered.Then laughed.
“You always do that,” he said, circling back.“Boring.”
“Effective,” I corrected.
He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing it across his skin like war paint.He was enjoying himself too much.
“Still boring,” he shot back.
I tilted my head slightly.
“If you are dead,” I said calmly, “you do not get to complain about how I killed you.”
His grin widened.
“That’s why I’m not dead.”
He came at me again.Faster this time.Less controlled.Exactly as I expected.
I adjusted my stance.
Rasputin swung wide.
I caught his wrist and twisted.I drove him down into the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
My knee pressed into his spine.
My hand locked his arm behind him at an angle that would break it if I pushed a fraction further.
