Russian scorpion

the pain

The door opened with a slow, deliberate creak, as though the man behind it wanted Leo to hear every inch of wood and hinge groaning. The dim light from the hallway stretched across the floor, spilling into the quiet room like a blade of fire.

Andre stepped inside.

He didn’t rush, didn’t speak right away. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click and leaned his weight against it for a second, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the walls. His eyes found Leo immediately—sitting hunched near the bed, one arm wrapped around himself, the bandaged shoulder trembling faintly.

“Rough night?” Andre’s voice was smooth, deep, carrying both the ease of conversation and the steel of command.

Leo said nothing at first. His surprise had frozen him, but he hid it quickly under that sharp mask of his—lips pressed in a thin line, eyes narrowed. He didn’t like being caught weak. He hated it.

Andre walked closer, each step steady, measured, boots echoing softly against the wooden floor. He didn’t stop until he was a few paces away, and then he crouched slightly, lowering himself so that his sharp gaze met Leo’s level.

“That shoulder,” Andre said, tilting his head just a fraction, “it looks worse than you want me to believe. You should be in bed, not staring out of windows like a restless wolf.”

Leo’s jaw tightened. His voice came out low, cold. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them. Then Andre chuckled under his breath, a low sound that wasn’t mocking, but wasn’t warm either. “You remind me of myself when I was younger. Sharp tongue. Always thinking I could bite through chains with my teeth alone.”

Leo shifted, ignoring the flash of pain in his shoulder, and tried to rise from the bed. Andre’s hand moved instinctively, steady, pressing lightly but firmly against Leo’s good shoulder to keep him down. Their eyes locked again.

“I don’t need your help,” Leo muttered.

“I know,” Andre said simply. His smile curved again, thin, unreadable. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop offering it.”

Leo frowned, confused at the strange calm in the man’s voice. He wasn’t used to people circling him with patience—usually it was either fists or knives. This was different. Dangerous in a quieter way.

For a while, Andre asked simple questions—about the pain, about Leo’s recovery. His tone was almost casual, as though two friends were catching up. But underneath every word, Leo could hear it: a rhythm, a purpose. Andre wasn’t here to check on him. He was circling, waiting for the moment to strike.

And that moment came suddenly.

Leo blinked when Andre’s smile sharpened and his hand slipped to his coat. In a smooth, almost graceful motion, he drew a pistol—black, heavy, and deliberate—and pressed it against Leo’s temple before the young fighter could even move.

The room seemed to shrink instantly. The cool metal kissed Leo’s skin, and his pulse hammered against it.

Andre leaned closer, his voice low, deadly calm. “You’ve been dancing on the edges for too long, Leo. Refusing contracts. Rejecting offers. Acting as if the world won’t eventually claim you. But here’s the truth—this world doesn’t let you walk away.”

Leo’s eyes burned with fury. He didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe, only stared straight back into Andre’s cold gaze. “So what? You’re going to pull the trigger because I don’t want to be your dog?”

Andre’s lips curved, almost regretful. “No. Not because of that. But because every empire needs its wolves, and I can’t let mine keep pretending he’s free. You’ll join the family… or you’ll die here tonight.”

The silence that followed was crushing.

The breeze at the window fluttered the curtains faintly, carrying the distant sounds of laughter and engines outside. Inside, there was only the sharp rhythm of Leo’s breath and the steady weight of the gun against his head.

His shoulder throbbed, his body screamed at him to stay still, but his mind was racing, burning, fighting to find a way out of the trap Andre had so perfectly set.

Leo had been cornered before in his life. But never like this.

And now, with Andre’s steel gaze locked onto him, he realized—this was the moment that would decide everything.

Leo didn’t answer.

The gun pressed cold and heavy against his temple, but he didn’t move, didn’t even waste words. His silence was sharper than any reply could have been, a defiance spoken through the sheer force of his glare.

But then it struck him.

The pain.

It came like a cruel storm—his right shoulder flaring suddenly, unbearably, as though someone had driven a hot iron through the wound and twisted it deeper. His jaw clenched, breath breaking uneven, and before he could stop himself, a low groan escaped his lips.

He dropped his gaze, teeth grinding together, his body betraying him in the worst moment. The world blurred around the edges. His vision pulsed with white. He leaned forward, clutching at the bandages that had long since soaked through, blood seeping stubbornly beneath the linen.

Andre didn’t lower the weapon at first. He only watched.

The smirk faded from his lips, replaced by something more complicated—something like calculation, even a touch of concern buried beneath the mask. He lowered the gun at last, sliding it back into his coat.

“ stubborn wolf,” Andre muttered under his breath. Then louder, sharp and commanding: “Stay still.”

Leo almost laughed, bitter through the pain. Stay still? His body was writhing without his permission, his legs twitching, his good hand gripping the edge of the bed hard enough to whiten his knuckles. His breath came fast, ragged. Sweat broke along his temples, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.

Andre swore in Russian, turned sharply, and barked an order toward the door. Within seconds, one of the villa guards rushed in.

“Bring the doctor,” Andre commanded. His voice left no room for hesitation.

The guard vanished down the hall at once.

The silence that followed was broken only by Leo’s uneven gasps and the faint rustle of the curtains by the open window. Andre paced once across the room, his hands behind his back, then stopped to look at him again. His face was unreadable.

“You’re going to tear yourself apart before anyone else gets the chance,” Andre said quietly.

Leo shot him a look, half fury, half exhaustion, but said nothing. Every word cost him strength, and right now, all his strength was going into not collapsing.

Minutes stretched like hours before hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor. The door burst open, and a short, broad-shouldered man in a medical coat entered, carrying a black case. His eyes darted to Andre first, then to Leo, and without asking permission, he went straight to work.

He pulled the bloody bandages aside. Leo hissed, his head snapping back as the doctor’s gloved fingers pressed the wound. He wanted to shove him away, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He endured it, jaw tight, as the doctor muttered in Russian and disinfected the injury.

Andre stood nearby, arms folded, eyes locked on Leo—not with mockery this time, but with the sharp, studying look of a man watching a wild animal in pain, measuring just how much it could take before it broke.

And just as the sting of antiseptic hit the air, another sound rolled through the villa.

Heavy footsteps.

A different kind of silence spread through the hallway beyond the door, a silence charged with weight and power. Guards shifted uneasily outside, and then a voice spoke—low, commanding, dangerous.

One of Andre's followers came and told him

*The Russian mafia leader had arrived.*

Andre’s head lifted immediately. He exchanged a glance with the doctor, then with Leo. For the first time since stepping into the room, Andre’s composure cracked just a fraction. His back straightened. His expression hardened into stone.

“He’s here,” Andre muttered, almost to himself.

Downstairs, in the villa’s basement, the leader of the Russian mafia himself had entered.

Leo closed his eyes for a second, forcing himself to breathe through the sharp pulses of pain. But his thoughts weren’t only on the fire burning through his shoulder.

They were on the truth that had just struck him—this villa wasn’t just a safe house. It was a cage, and the wolf had just realized the hunter was home.