"Get up, you idiot!" Youri's eyes barely focused, words slurred and furious.
They hauled him upright. The room tipped for a second, then fixed.
"Who was that bitch?!" Gloria spat, voice cracking with disbelief.
"The General," Youri said flatly, urgency in her tone.
"General of what!?" she yelled, blinking wildly at the serious faces around him.
"Look—I'm sorry. The night was ruined and I take responsibility. But those dancers… my god, they were to die for," Youri muttered, voice breaking with a half-laugh, half-grimace.
"This fucking moron," Gloria hissed, teeth clenched.
A runner burst in, breathless, urgency cutting through the haze. "Hey Gloria — I found her! But she just got taken away by some big dudes in a black car!" he shouted, eyes wide.
"What do you mean, she got kidnapped?!" Gloria snapped, panic lacing her voice.
"I think so!" the runner added, voice shaking.
"Hey idiot — that general of yours just got swiped. Come on, sober up!" Gloria barked, exasperation and fear fighting for dominance.
A small vial pressed into Youri's lips. He choked it down—bitter, medicinal—while neon bled through his eyelids and the club spun into focus.
"Ah—my head. Where the hell am I?!" Youri groaned, clutching his temples.
"At Lux, asshole!" Gloria snapped, voice sharp as broken glass.
"Gloria! How did I get here?!" Youri yelled, confusion and frustration tangled together.
"That's for you to find out. But first—important news. The lady you call General was captured by a man called Dimitry. Do you know him?" Gloria said, eyes dark with urgency.
"No!" Youri barked, panic rising. "Who the hell calls himself Dimitry?!"
"Well, buddy, you might want to go after them," Gloria said calmly, though the tension in her jaw betrayed her worry.
"No—let them be. She's a monster!" Youri snapped, his voice trembling between fear and stubbornness.
"Buddy—you owe me three thousand zells. Either you pay the money or you go grab your golden-boy wallet. Which do you choose?" Gloria said, scolding but matter-of-fact.
"All right, who is this Dimitry guy?" Youri asked, voice low and wary.
"He showed up a few years ago. Half his body's robotized—they say someone cut him in half in a battle and he still survived," Gloria said, tone grim and heavy.
Cold threaded into Youri's bones. "Oh shit. I think I know what's going on. That damn woman—I'd bet she was the one who cut him! And she wields a sword in battle," Youri muttered, eyes narrowing.
"What are you still doing here?!" Gloria barked, voice loud, furious, shaking with urgency.
"I'm trying to think. Okay—I can't go in blind. I need a plan," Youri said, calm on the surface, but his teeth gritted beneath the veneer.
"A plan? Boy, you can't even get your ass off the floor and you think you can come up with a plan!" Gloria shouted, exasperated.
"You got a point," Youri admitted, a weak smirk tugging at his lips.
Metal thudded into his lap—a rifle, heavy and honest. It landed with a verdict.
"Grab this gun and get up. I'll send you the location of his hideout. Get there, call me, and I'll call the police and come as soon as I can. Go!" she ordered, voice hard but caring underneath.
His fingers closed on cold metal. The rifle felt like a promise and a punishment both. He breathed. Fear and resolve warbled in his chest like two birds fighting for the same perch. He stood, voice low, muttering to himself: "Time to fix this…"
Outside, the city hummed indifferently. The warehouse on the edge of town was a rusted tooth in a jaw of concrete—loading docks crouched like sleeping beasts, containers stacked like tombstones. Mercenaries drifted between the shadows, cigarette embers tiny suns in their hands. The smell was oil and old rain and something exactly like the end of everything.
Dimitry Oron moved like a sculpture that had learned to breathe. He was impossible in the way a rumor becomes truth: part flesh, part metal. One eye glowed a slow, furious red, a prosthetic arm wound with pistons and hydraulic veins. The human half of him bore the old wars—scars, a jaw clenched around the memory of a life lost.
"Now, my dear Phantom, it's time to see how your insides look," Dimitry said, voice calm, taunting, venom in every word.
"You piece of shit. You think you can break me with that toy? I've been cut worse," Leonora snapped, voice defiant, eyes burning.
"Your reputation precedes you," Dimitry purred, circling like a predator admiring its prey.
"But what would you say if I did this to the lovely woman you call your assistant?" he asked, mocking, cruel.
"You piece of shit—you go after defenseless women?" Leonora's voice trembled with rage and fear, a storm contained in sinew.
"No, not particularly, but since she looks important to you, I'll enjoy it," Dimitry said, voice smooth, terrifying.
"I swear, once I'm out of this, I'll cut you into so many pieces no one will ever put you back together," Leonora hissed, voice low, deadly, her fury coiling around him.
"Lovely Leonora, stalling for time? Do you really think you'll get out of here?" he mocked, voice dripping with cruel amusement.
"Mark my words—what I say, I do," she spat, voice unwavering, pure defiance.
"That's enough. You took the fun out of it. Now it's time to die," Dimitry said, voice cold as steel.
The saw sang a blue, hungry note. The sound was obscene in the damp air, metal teeth spinning like sacrificial stars.
Then the world fractured.
An explosion threw light through the cracks in the roof. Dust fell like a shroud. Alarms began to wail, ugly and urgent, as men shouted into radios that now seemed useless. Somewhere metal groaned. Someone outside screamed about a car crushed inside the base.
"My neck—ouch. Damn, Gloria, you should've given me a tougher car," Youri muttered, grinning despite the chaos, voice half-pained, half-triumphant.
"Who is that man?!" Dimitry's lieutenant barked, voice panicked, disbelief in every syllable.
"I don't care—everyone, kill him!" Dimitry roared, voice like a hammer, furious, commanding.
"Another fucking carnage then," Youri muttered, eyes wild, adrenaline sharpening every movement.
The mercenaries swarmed like hornets. Metal sang on metal; the saw hissed against floorboards. Leonora strained against her bonds, hands raw, eyes catching his across the chaos as if to anchor herself to a single certainty in a storm: him, alive, breathing, dangerous.
Dimitry turned, hatred a physical thing. "Shut up. We have unfinished business—you and I. As for the rest… he's a dead man walking," his voice a threat carved in iron.
"Quick—get my car ready! You take care of that idiot," Dimitry barked at his crew, voice urgent, sharp as a blade.
Gunshots canting the air into shards. Men collapsed, cursed, rose, collapsed again. A crate tipped, carrying the smell of old oranges and rust. In the middle of it all, Youri and Leonora locked eyes. No lines were drawn—only a promise burned there, black and simple: survive, or