Russian scorpion

Between Two Worlds

The voice carried aThe night air of Istanbul was heavy with smoke and gasoline, carrying the buzz of neon lights and the muffled echoes of the arena he had just conquered. Leo stepped out of the underground headquarters with his bag slung over his shoulder, his ribs aching under his shirt, his knuckles raw beneath the bandages.

The street outside was alive with gamblers, thugs, and mafia lieutenants. Expensive cars lined the curb, engines humming, drivers watching with cold eyes. This was no place for innocence. Every glance was calculating, every smile sharp as a blade.

Leo kept walking, his gaze forward, his pace steady. Victory was his, money was his, freedom was his—for tonight, at least.

“Leo!”uthority, heavy and slick like oil. A tall man in a tailored black suit stepped out from the crowd, his cigarette glowing in the dark. His hair was slicked back, his face hard, the kind of man who had power not because he asked for it—but because he took it.

It was Kemal. One of the Istanbul mafia’s rising captains, infamous for building armies out of broken men.

“You fought well,” Kemal said, his tone both praise and threat. “Three men down, and you’re still standing. That’s… impressive.”

Leo stopped, his eyes narrowing. He didn’t like compliments in this world. Compliments always came with chains.

“I don’t fight for you,” Leo said flatly.

Kemal smirked, tossing his cigarette to the ground. “Not yet. But you will. Men like you don’t stay free. You’re wasting your talent in cages when you could be earning real power—money, protection, women, influence. Join us, Leo. With me, you’ll be untouchable.”

The crowd nearby hushed. Even the gamblers and thugs leaned in, sensing something dangerous unfolding.

Leo’s reply was sharp as a blade: “I said no.”

Kemal’s smile faded. “Careful, boy. You think you can survive this city without us? You think you can just walk away? Nobody says no to the Istanbul family.”

Leo’s jaw tightened, but his voice didn’t waver. “I just did.”

A ripple of tension shot through the crowd. Men shifted on their feet, hands drifting toward hidden weapons. The street was suddenly hotter, sharper, the kind of silence that comes before glass shatters.

Kemal stepped closer, so close Leo could smell the cologne mixed with smoke. “You’re young. Strong. Stupid. But I’ll give you one chance. Join us, or you’ll be crushed. Not in the cage—out here. On the streets. No man refuses us and breathes long enough to regret it.”

Leo’s eyes burned with defiance. His ribs screamed with pain, but his voice cut through the air like steel.

“I fight for myself. Not for you. Not for your father. Not for your empire. If you come for me, remember—I don’t go down easy.”

For a moment, no one breathed. The tension was a knife pressing against the throat of the night.

Then Kemal chuckled, low and cruel. “You’ve got fire. That’s why I want you. That’s also why you’ll burn.”

He snapped his fingers, and his men parted to let Leo pass. But their eyes promised this wasn’t over.

Leo walked on, shoulders straight, every muscle ready for the ambush that might come. The city lights reflected in his dark eyes, fierce and unyielding. He had turned his back on the mafia—and he knew what that meant.

From now on, every step in Istanbul would be war.

The streets of Istanbul were restless, alive even at midnight. Neon lights blinked across the Bosphorus, taxis weaved through traffic, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with gasoline in the humid air. Leo walked fast, shoulders hunched beneath his jacket, his duffel bag heavy against his side. Every bone in his body ached, but his stride was steady, his head held high.

He didn’t take the main roads. He never did. Instead, he slipped through side streets, narrow alleys where stray cats prowled and old men smoked in silence. He knew the shortcuts by heart, moving like a shadow until at last, he reached a small two-story house tucked between taller buildings.

It wasn’t big, and it wasn’t poor—it was just enough. A single light flickered faintly through the window, welcoming him home.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of soap and coffee grounds. The furniture was simple: a worn leather couch, a low wooden table, and shelves lined with books he barely had time to read. It wasn’t luxury, but it was his. In a city that wanted to own him, Leo had carved out a space that belonged to no one but him.

He dropped his bag onto the floor with a dull thud and headed straight for the bathroom.

The shower hissed to life, steam filling the small space. Leo stepped under the scalding water, closing his eyes as the heat seared into his bruises. For a moment, the pain eased, washing down the drain along with the blood and sweat of the arena. His thoughts wandered—to Adam, to his past, to the shadows always following him—but he shoved them away. Not tonight.

When he finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged, his reflection a blur. He wiped a streak across the glass and stared at himself: tall, sharp-featured, with the traces of both Algeria and Japan etched into his face. His black hair clung wet to his skin, his eyes dark and unreadable. Handsome, they always said. Handsome enough to get a job he didn’t deserve.

He dried off quickly, pulled on a plain T-shirt and loose pants, and collapsed onto his bed. Sleep came instantly, like a punch that knocked him out. He woke up at night to pray Fajr and then went back to sleep.

Morning arrived with the call of street vendors and the faint hum of traffic outside his window. Leo dragged himself out of bed, sore but alive. His ribs still ached, but there was no time to rest. He dressed neatly this time—white shirt, black trousers, polished shoes. The fighter was gone; the waiter was born.

The restaurant where he worked was only a short walk away, tucked near the fashionable district where Istanbul’s slightly wealthy dined. It wasn’t the kind of place where billionaires gathered, but it wasn’t cheap either. Men wore tailored jackets, women draped themselves in silk, .

Leo fit right in—not because of who he was, but because of how he looked. His height, his posture, the striking mix of Asian and Algerian features—he was unforgettable. The manager had taken one look at him months ago and hired him on the spot.

“Face like yours,” the manager had said with a smirk, “and the women will never complain about the service.”

Leo didn’t argue. He needed the money, and the job gave him a mask to wear during the day. Behind the polite smile and crisp uniform, no one saw the fighter who bled in illegal cages at night.

As he buttoned his shirt and prepared to leave, Leo caught his reflection again in the small mirror by the door.

Two lives stared back at him: the undefeated fighter, and the quiet waiter.

And somehow, he had to survive as both.

The restaurant glittered under chandeliers, and low hum of laughter filling the air. Expensive perfumes drifted between tables, mingling with the scent of roasted lamb and saffron. Leo moved through it all with the ease of someone who had learned to vanish behind a uniform—white shirt, black vest, polished shoes.

He carried trays balanced on one hand, his tall frame cutting easily through the crowd. The women noticed him first—always. Their conversations paused, their eyes following him as leaned down to take an order. The men noticed too, but with tighter jaws and wary glances.

Leo kept his face calm, polite, untouchable.

But not everyone respected masks.

At one of the corner tables, a wealthy man with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes was already deep in his cups. Rings glittered on his fingers, and his laugh was loud enough to rattle the silverware. His friends smirked at him but said nothing—the drunk always had to put on a show.

Leo approached quietly, setting down a plate of marinated veal

The man squinted up at him, his lips curling into a sloppy grin. “Handsome boy,” he slurred, his voice carrying across two tables. “Too handsome to be carrying dishes.”

A few guests chuckled under their breath. Leo said nothing, only adjusted the plate and turned to leave.

That’s when it happened.

The drunk man’s hand shot out and—slap!—struck Leo across the face.

The sound was sharp, cutting through the restaurant like a c***k of thunder. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, forks froze halfway to mouths. For one suspended second, the entire room held its breath.

Leo’s head barely moved from the impact, but his eyes slowly shifted back to the man.

The drunk laughed nervously, as if trying to turn the moment into a joke. “What? You gonna cry, pretty boy?”

Leo didn’t blink. His gaze locked on the man, steady, unyielding—like a wolf staring down prey.

The drunk’s laughter faltered. His friends stiffened in their seats. they notice Leo's looks at the man, he looked like he was going to kill him.

Then, slowly—too slowly—Leo’s lips curved into a smile.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t friendly. It was the kind of smile that said, You don’t know how lucky you are that this isn’t the cage.

The drunk shifted in his chair, suddenly sweating under the chandelier’s light. his hand shaking. His friends muttered excuses, whispering at him to calm down, to leave it.

Leo inclined his head just slightly, the smile still fixed in place, before turning on his heel and walking away. His back straight, his steps silent, as if nothing had happened at all.

But the restaurant didn’t breathe again until he disappeared into the kitchen.

There, out of sight, Leo exhaled slowly. His cheek stung, but he let the sting fade into nothing. He’d been hit harder. Much harder.

He tied his apron tighter, picked up the next tray, and stepped back into the golden light of the dining room. The mask was still in place.