Alya
Figures moving in the shadows.
They were fast. I had no time to react before hands were on me. I twisted, tried to jerk free, but I was outmatched. A rough arm snaked around my waist, yanking me back. Another hand clamped onto my wrist, twisting it at a painful angle, forcing me to my knees. Frustration burned through me. My fighting skills were pathetic compared to Hule's, and it showed. My kicks barely connected, my struggles only made them tighten their grip. A growl of frustration tore from my throat. Hule wasn't struggling. He was fighting. Brutally.
He moved with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times before. He fired two more shots before they reached him, his movements sharp, deliberate. When one of them knocked his gun from his hands, he didn't hesitate, he drove an elbow into the nearest man's throat, sending him staggering. He pivoted, grabbed another by the collar, and slammed him into the hood of the burning car. The heat didn't slow him. But there were too many.
Before I could even process what was happening, something cold pressed against the side of my head. Everything stopped. Hule froze mid-motion, his chest rising and falling hard. For the first time since this fight started, hesitation flickered across his face. It lasted a second. But a second was all they needed. Someone grabbed him from behind, ripping his arms back. The butt of a rifle struck the back of his head with a sickening crack.
He collapsed. Didn't move.
A thousand thoughts crashed through me like a tidal wave, each one colliding, breaking apart, reforming into something more chaotic. But beneath the confusion, beneath the fear clawing at my ribs, one thought rose above the rest, sharp and deafening.
Why did he stop?
Hule could have finished them. I had seen him fight—ruthless, efficient, a weapon in human form. He could have taken them all down, slipped into the shadows, walked away without a second thought.
But he didn't. He stopped. For me?
A cold weight settled in my stomach, twisting deep, pressing against my ribs until I could hardly breathe. It made no sense. Hule wasn't the type to hesitate. He wasn't the type to sacrifice himself for someone like me. And yet, he had. And now, he was lying motionless on the ground, his gun ripped from his grasp, blood darkening his hair where they had struck him.
I turned my gaze to the masked men, my pulse still erratic, my breath shallow. They loomed over me, their presence suffocating. Broad shoulders, thick arms, built for brute force rather than precision. They weren't lean and efficient like trained assassins. No, these men were muscle—designed to break, not to kill cleanly. Their movements were aggressive, their stances solid but unrefined. They relied on overwhelming power rather than strategy.
That alone told me one thing; Isamu couldn't have sent them.
Right? The thought barely forms before I shake it off. No. No way. Isamu wouldn't dare.
Besides, their combat style was all wrong. The Yazuka didn't fight like this. If Isamu had sent his men, they would've been faster, striking like a blade through the dark—silent, efficient, lethal. Their weapons wouldn't be standard assault rifles. They favored blades, small firearms, the kind of close-range combat that left little room for mistakes. Every kill would've been intentional, clean. A message. These men weren't sending messages. Were they?
But it wasn't Isamu.
So if not him, then who?
And who the hell would be reckless enough to risk defying the most powerful man in Russia?
The stakes were too high. The consequences of an untidy conflict with someone like Siege would be catastrophic, something Isamu wouldn't dare initiate. He wasn't the type to throw caution to the wind for the sake of ego or territory. The Yazuka didn't waste alliances. They weren't stupid.
But still, I couldn't shake the feeling that these men weren't from anywhere near our circle. They didn't belong here. One of the men glanced at me, catching my stare, before he pulled a comm from his belt. He spoke into it in a low, guttural tone, the words spilling out in a language I didn't recognize. It wasn't Japanese. And it sure as hell wasn't Russian. My mind raced, my pulse spiking as I strained to listen. The accent… Italian. Italian?
I blinked, trying to make sense of it. We didn't have any business with the Italians. None. The whole idea was absurd. The Italians had never crossed our path, not directly, at least. Our business wasn't theirs, and theirs wasn't ours. There had never been an alliance between the two of us, and as far as I knew, there had been no conflict, either.
Why would the Italians be involved now?
My teeth ground together, the sharp taste of frustration building in my throat. A war between egos? Was that what this was? Were the Italians throwing their weight around for no other reason than to challenge us? What had Siege done this time? What had we done to get their attention?
I bit my tongue to keep from snapping at them. I wasn't in a position to fight back right now, and I couldn't afford to waste energy on that. But the anger in me boiled. The Italians? This was ridiculous. I had spent countless hours managing alliances and conflicts, carefully balancing the delicate webs of power. And yet here I was, facing a group of men I had no reason to be dealing with, people who had no business being here. This wasn't how it worked. This wasn't how any of it worked.
The Italians… they had no place in our world. But if they were here, it was either a message or a miscalculation. Either way, it didn't make sense. I was the one in charge of managing these things. The last thing I needed was some outside force tearing everything apart without warning. And also it was foul for any organization to disrupt another's strategy, to ruin the delicate balance that kept everything running smoothly. But then, it was also the most effective tactic when they wanted to force a particular result. The question was: what did they want from us? Why now?
The comm crackles, distorting as another voice comes through. Italian. Low, controlled, the words flowing in rapid succession. My stomach tightens. Siege had forced me to learn the languages of our alliances, and for a long time, I had clung to that knowledge like a lifeline. It made me useful. Necessary. But now, kneeling on the hard ground, sharp rocks biting into my skin, that sense of usefulness feels like a distant memory. I didn't know this language. My mind is blank, shock creeping in like a slow-moving tide.
I barely register the nod one of them gives before a rough hand clamps onto my arm. Fingers dig in, strong, unyielding, as I'm wrenched to my feet. My legs protest, stiff from kneeling too long, and for a moment, I stumble. I swallow hard, forcing my breath steady. Where are they taking me?
I turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse when one of them hoists Hule up as if he weighs nothing, slinging his unconscious body over a shoulder with effortless strength. My chest tightens. The air around me suddenly feels thinner, harder to pull into my lungs. Is he even breathing? I can't tell. I want to call out to him, to reach for him, but then—darkness.
A blindfold.
The fabric presses against my eyes, shutting out everything. My breath stutters. The absence of sight heightens everything else—the distant murmur of voices, the shuffle of boots against dirt, the tang of sweat and gun oil in the air. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out thought.
Five men. One girl.
Ice seeps into my veins. A slow, suffocating kind of terror. Every muscle in my body locks up as my mind supplies images I don't want to see, thoughts I don't want to have. It's instinct, this fear. Primal. My lungs feel too tight, my throat raw, but I don't let the panic take me.
Move.
My body coils like a spring before I slam my elbow back as hard as I can. I feel it connect, a solid, sickening impact against ribs. The man jerks, his grip slipping as he lets out a choked, pained grunt. I wrench myself free, hands flying to the back of my head, clawing at the knot. My legs burn as I push forward, my boots scraping against the ground, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Run. Just run.
But then, just as my fingers begin to loosen the knot, a sudden, searing pain explodes at the base of my skull. It's blinding, a white-hot burst that knocks the air from my lungs. My knees buckle. The world tilts. The last thing I register is the feeling of falling before the darkness swallows me whole.