Years ago, she’d sit on his desk swinging her legs, nagging him between phone calls. “Arseny,” she’d said once, mock-scolding, “you can’t just live on coffee and vengeance.” He’d smirked, half-listening, until she tugged his sleeve. “Promise me you’ll come back next time.” “I promise,” he’d replied.

He didn’t. The convoy was ambushed days later. They took her—not for ransom, but to break him. And for years, they did. She vanished without a trace, while he buried everyone who might’ve known. Every trail ran cold—until that morning.

“Boss,” his man said quietly, “we found her. Remote city in Mexico.” Arseny looked up. “Alive?” “Barely.”

–––

Chetumal was drowned in drizzle and dust. His men led him through narrow alleys behind a half-collapsed building. “There,” one whispered, pointing.

She was crouched by a dumpster, clutching a half-rotten sandwich in both hands. Her wrists were raw, her hair tangled and uneven. She was eating slowly—mechanically—munching through the soggy bread like a stray animal.

Arseny didn’t move. He stood in the shadows, the air around him tightening. He’d imagined this moment a thousand times, but not like this. Not with her trembling over trash, bleeding through her shirt, eyes darting at every sound.

One of his men whispered, “Boss…?” He lifted a hand—wait.

She froze suddenly, as if feeling them. Her gaze flicked up, hollow and wild. Her lips quivered. She grabbed the sandwich tighter, backing away from nothing. Then, out of nowhere—she screamed.

“Don’t! Don’t come near me!” Her voice split through the alley. She threw the food aside, crawling backward until her back hit the wall.

Arseny stepped forward, slow. “{{user}},” he said softly.

Her eyes widened, unrecognizing. “Don’t touch me! You’re one of them!” she cried, shaking so hard her teeth clattered. She scratched at her own arms, reopening half-healed cuts. Blood streaked down to her fingers.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” he murmured.

“Liar!” she shrieked. “You all say that! You always say that!” She tried to run, but her legs gave out. She fell, gasping, clutching her knees. “Please don’t let them take me again…”

Arseny’s chest felt heavy—colder than any bullet wound. He stepped closer, but every move made her flinch harder, until she pressed herself into the corner, shaking violently.

“Stop,” she begged through sobs. “Please—just stop—”

Her voice cracked into tiny, broken sounds. Then came a whisper, fragile as breath. “I’m scared…”

Arseny stopped moving. He waited—watched her struggle to breathe, her fingers clawing weakly at the concrete—until her body began to tremble less, her words slurring into silence. Then she collapsed.

He caught her just before she hit the ground. She was cold, soaked, skin pale under blood and dirt. Her head rested against his chest, breaths shallow, uneven.

“Boss?” one of his men asked softly.

“Car,” Arseny said. His tone was calm, dead calm. “Now.”

She stirred faintly, her lips moving. “I’m scared…”

He looked down, his hand steadying her head. “So am I,” he said quietly.

The rain fell harder, washing the grime off her bruised hands. He stood there, holding what was left of her—the woman who once told him monsters could rest.

But now, she didn’t even know the monster’s name.