His Favourite Scar

2:41 a.m. The silence inside the Maserati was louder than the wind outside. Luca Volkov sat motionless, eyes fixed on the road ahead, though he wasn’t the one driving. The city lights of Moscow, dull and yellow, streaked past like memories—flickering, blurred, unwanted. The leather seats beneath him didn’t shift with his body. He hadn’t moved in minutes. His black gloved fingers tapped once on his thigh. Once. Then still. The engine purred like a beast under control. Outside the window, shadows danced past empty alleyways. Streets abandoned at this hour were filled with things he understood—darkness, fear, power. The things he had grown up breathing. His wrist turned slightly, revealing the smooth shine of his Rolex Sky-Dweller, platinum. The watch read 2:41 AM. Seven minutes since the call. > “Sir, it’s your father. Dmitri Volkov’s been attacked. He’s at the Arkhangel Private Hospital.” The name hadn’t struck him as hard as the tone. He wasn’t close to his father. Never had been. Dmitri Volkov was a man of ice and thunder. And Luca? He was the storm that followed. But blood was blood. His head tilted back against the seat, perfectly styled black hair still slicked in place. Not a strand out of line. His jaw was sharp, freshly shaven, clean enough to draw blood if someone brushed too close. His scent filled the confined car — an intoxicating blend of oud wood, crushed pepper, and smoky vanilla. It was his signature — quiet, rich, and dangerous. The buttons on his black Tom Ford suit glinted faintly, and the edge of a gunmetal tiepin sat tight at his throat. He was dressed like a man going to war, not a hospital. But Luca Volkov didn’t go anywhere unprepared. He didn’t let his mind wander. But tonight — it slipped. > What if this is the last time I see him? What would I say? Nothing came to mind. --- The hospital rose ahead like a white cage under moonlight. The car came to a smooth halt near the private wing, and the other four vehicles fanned out in formation. Four bodyguards stepped out with mechanical precision. Each dressed in black. Each armed. Trained. Unquestioning. The moment Luca stepped out, the cold air bit through his skin, but he didn’t flinch. His shoes—custom Italian leather—clicked against the pavement like a ticking bomb. Every sound he made was clean, deliberate. No alarms. No chaos. Because he had cleared it all. This was his world. The smell hit him first inside: disinfectant, bleach, latex... blood beneath the surface. He hated it. It clashed with his cologne. It tried to erase him. Everything was white. Too white. Sterile walls. Fluorescent lights humming. A ghost town of gurneys and glass doors. It felt wrong. Not because of death — Luca had seen enough of that. But because it was too clean to be real. He walked like royalty through the corridor. No one dared look. No one dared breathe too loudly. Only silence walked beside him. Room 703. Top floor. Last hallway to the left. Private ICU. Two guards stationed at the door stiffened as he approached. They opened the way without a word. But his eyes weren’t on the door. They were on her. She was slumped on a small bench beside the ICU entrance. Quiet. Almost invisible. Almost. --- She looked… small. Not physically—no, she wasn’t childlike—but there was something quiet about the way she sat. Like she had folded herself down into something the world wouldn’t bother looking at. Her legs were tucked under her, arms clutching a grey hospital blanket draped over her shoulders. Even from ten feet away, Luca could see the blood. Dried at the temple. A long trail down one arm. One shoulder was exposed where the fabric of her top had ripped, revealing torn skin and a faint purple bruise that spread down to her collarbone. Her hair was ash-blonde, tangled, strands stuck to her neck with sweat and blood. Her skin was pale—almost too pale under the hospital lights—but flushed pink at the cheeks. From cold? Pain? He didn’t know. And her eyes—icy blue. She looked up the second he approached. And those eyes locked with his. There was fear. But there was also something else. Stillness. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong in someone like her. Not in someone so soft, so bloodied, so delicate. --- “Who are you?” he asked, voice flat. He didn’t stop walking. Just spoke as he passed, standing now in front of his father’s door. She stood slowly. The blanket slipped off her shoulder. “I was with him,” she whispered. Her voice was low, hoarse. “When it happened.” Luca turned slightly, eyes scanning her again—top to toe. Bare feet. Bruised knees. Torn black blouse, soaked in dried blood. A gash near her ribs, quickly bandaged. Her perfume — faint, barely clinging on under the scent of metal — was something floral... jasmine, maybe. And vanilla. He raised his hand. A bodyguard stepped forward, placed a briefcase on the bench beside her. Clicked it open. Inside, clean stacks of rupees. Neat. Cold. Heavy. He didn’t look at her. “Take it.” She didn’t move. “I don’t want money,” she said softly. Now he looked. His brow twitched. Barely. “Everyone wants something,” he replied. “What’s yours?” Her hand brushed across her shoulder. The torn fabric. “Just… a shirt. Please.” That caught him off guard. Not the fear in her voice—there was none. Not the request—it was too simple. It was the fact she had the nerve to say it. Like she wasn’t standing in front of Luca Volkov. He gestured. Another guard stepped forward with a crisp, pressed white shirt. From the car. He tossed it at her without a word. She caught it. Arms shaking slightly. She glanced down the hallway. “Is there…?” He pointed. “Third door on the right.” She nodded. Limped away. Bare feet on icy floor. White shirt clutched to her chest. He didn’t realize he was still watching. --- He turned from her and walked into Room 703. The world narrowed. His father lay on the bed, tubes down his nose, bandages across his shoulder, a gash stitched clean across the side of his jaw. The heart monitor beeped—slow, steady. He looked small. Smaller than Luca remembered. Dmitri Volkov had always been a giant in Luca’s memory. Not in size, but in presence. A man who made walls shrink. A voice that cut deeper than bullets. Now he looked... human. Machines hummed. A drip bag swayed faintly. Luca stepped closer. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t touch. He just… stared. And for one fleeting moment, a quiet thought whispered through his mind— > “This could’ve been the last time.” He clenched his fists. Then his phone buzzed. > Viktor: “Sir. One of the guards saw it happen. Wants to speak.” He turned. --- The guard bowed slightly, avoiding eye contact. “Sir… it happened at the loading alley behind the Eastern dock. About 11:50 p.m. Mr. Volkov was… alone. Waiting for a contact. He didn’t bring backup—said it was a clean drop.” Luca didn’t speak. Just stared. The man continued, voice shaking. “Two men came out of the shadows. Both masked. Knives out. No warning.” He hesitated. Swallowed. “She—uh—the girl—appeared from the side. Looked like she was just passing. But when they lunged at Mr. Volkov, she—” He paused. Searching for the right words. “She went at them like something wild. One bottle in her hand, broken. She stabbed the first in the neck. Took a hit to the ribs. Kept going.” Luca’s jaw tensed. “She got cut. Bad. But didn’t stop. Knocked one out with a brick. The second tried to run. She chased him off.” The guard looked up finally. “She didn’t know who he was. Said nothing. Just… dragged him to the car and called the police. Stayed with him till the ambulance came.” --- A soft knock behind him. He turned. She stood there. Wearing his shirt. It hung off her shoulders, sleeves rolled messily, top buttons loose. Her bare legs peeked out just below the hem. She looked… not broken. But tired. Worn. Beautiful in a way that made no sense. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll leave now.” He didn’t move. But his eyes tracked every inch of her. “What’s your name?” he asked suddenly. She paused. “…Caelia,” she said. “Caelia Morozova.” He nodded once. Didn’t speak again. She turned. And walked away. Leaving behind blood on the floor. And something heavier in his chest.