Hel & Veritas

The Scene

Two weeks into her job at Volga Group, Fiorenza found a comfortable rhythm. Her days were filled with checking on recovering patients and performing straightforward surgeries. Years of absorbing medical knowledge and honing her surgical skills in university labs had instilled a deep confidence within her.

While her workdays settled into a predictable routine, her evenings had been anything but dull. Her first week in New York was a whirlwind of exploration with her parents. They had arrived the day after their late-night call, their faces beaming as they greeted her in the hospital lobby. Her dad became her personal chauffeur, dropping her off and picking her up each day. Evenings were a joyous affair – the three of them venturing out to savor New York's culinary delights or retreating to the cozy condo for movie nights fueled by pizza and wings. The weekend brought an unexpected trip to Disneyland in Orlando, a burst of childlike fun filled with thrilling rides, countless silly photos, and shared laughter in ridiculous costumes.

Her parents had returned to Paris last Tuesday, duty calling them back. Her papa had an urgent high-profile divorce case, and her mama needed to finalize preparations for Aether's upcoming Autumn collection showcase at Paris Fashion Week.

Fiorenza, a true shopaholic, had dedicated her last weekend to exploring New York's boutiques, adding new pieces, especially lingerie, to her already extensive wardrobe. She loved collecting beautiful intimates and capturing their allure in photographs. Thankfully, her best friend Marcella, a talented software developer by day and a gifted photographer by night, was always ready behind the lens, capturing her sultriest poses. They had spent hours video-calling over the weekend, sharing snippets of their lives across the miles.

In the past two weeks, she had only caught fleeting glimpses of Dr. Mikhailov twice since her nerve-wracking first day. The second time was brief – she had been discussing an upcoming surgery with Dr. Brevinska when Dr. Mikhailov had walked in without knocking, stopping abruptly in the doorway. His eyes had raked over her body, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before he nodded curtly at her and Dr. Brevinska and then moved on. Fiorenza had mumbled an excuse and hurried past the imposing figure.

That encounter had been last Thursday, and today marked the start of her third week. Volga Group's reputation among doctors was as stellar as it was among patients. The facilities provided by the medical giant were unparalleled. Surgeons enjoyed an enviable work-life balance: eight-hour days, four days a week, with the generous reward of two additional paid days off for any urgent surgeries they were called in for during their time off.

The hospital's ethos was one of absolute equality in patient care, regardless of social standing. Volga Group enforced a strict code of conduct, and several medical personnel had been swiftly terminated for any hint of discrimination against patients from less privileged backgrounds.

Fiorenza finished her shift and changed into her outfit for the day: a delicate pale blue lace fit-and-flare mini dress paired with comfortable white ballet flats. Stepping out of the hospital, she got into her car, deciding to visit Aether's New York branch. She had always been her mother's first model, showcasing her latest designs in the comfort of their home.

Within seven years of its launch, Aether had solidified its position as one of the most coveted brands in the fashion industry. Whenever her parents planned family vacations, her mother would always take her on a personal tour of Aether's showroom in the respective country, indulging her love for beautiful clothes.

It took Fiorenza forty minutes to reach the store on Madison Avenue. Like every other Aether location, the New York boutique embraced a chic, minimalist aesthetic with a color scheme of pastel pink, black, and red. The staff immediately flocked to assist her upon her arrival – a perk of being the CEO's daughter.

She selected a couple of slinky satin mini dresses, elegant pumps, and her favorite lacy lingerie, paying for her purchases and exchanging warm greetings with the staff before leaving. As the owner's daughter, she could have easily walked out without spending a dime, but her mother had always instilled in her the importance of valuing the hard work of others. These employees spent hours on their feet, attending to countless customers, their commissions contributing to their monthly expenses. Every single dollar they earned mattered, and disrespecting their efforts was simply unacceptable.

It was already seven in the evening when she left the store, her arms laden with shopping bags. She decided to drive back to her condo, a forty-five-minute journey.

The New York streets were bustling with commuters, a sea of faces waiting for buses and taxis, a palpable sense of anticipation in the air as they neared the sanctuary of their homes. She drove towards her condo, enjoying the quieter stretch of the city dotted with small, inviting outlets. Her gaze fell upon a charming little bakery tucked away in the semi-darkness towards the end of the street. A sudden craving for something sweet prompted Fiorenza to park near the shop. She entered, a slight frown creasing her brow when no one came to assist her. The "Open" sign glowed invitingly, but the workers seemed to be missing in action. She sighed, a hint of disappointment in her pout, and decided to try her luck another time. Turning to leave, a muffled sound reached her ears, stopping her in her tracks. It felt like the beginning of one of those horror movies she absolutely loathed, yet, just like those ill-fated characters, a morbid curiosity compelled her to investigate, just in case someone genuinely needed help.

She ventured deeper into the quiet café, straining to hear anything that would pinpoint the source of the sound. Another muffled groan echoed through the otherwise silent space, and it seemed to be coming from the closed kitchen behind the counter. Fiorenza moved towards the back, her steps light and cautious. Maybe she was just being paranoid, and it was simply a worker who had accidentally injured themselves. But if it was something serious, she could offer her medical expertise without delay.

Taking a deep breath, she slowly pushed open the unlocked kitchen door, only to be met with a scene bathed in semi-darkness, illuminated by a single flickering bulb, revealing two figures. One man was kneeling, his upper body bare and slick with blood, half a dozen darts protruding from his flesh, a gag stuffed in his mouth muffling his whimpers. The other figure was clad in black from head to toe, a handful of darts held casually in his gloved hand, his posture suggesting he was selecting his next target. A red-skulled neon mask concealed his face, but his sheer size seemed to shrink the already small room.

“You thought you could flee Russia and I wouldn’t find you, Kristian?” the masked man questioned casually, running his free hand through his hair. The kneeling man, Kristian, whimpered, his body trembling like a terrified animal, tears streaming down his face, one eye open and filled with terror, the other swollen shut and bruised black. As a doctor, Fiorenza had witnessed her share of patients arriving after horrific accidents, drenched in blood, but this scene was so chillingly deliberate that it made her stomach churn. She watched in horrified fascination as the masked man casually threw another dart, hitting Kristian squarely in his left collarbone, eliciting a choked squeal. Fiorenza clamped a hand over her mouth, desperately stifling the scream that threatened to alert the murderer.

The masked man sighed, a sound of bored amusement. “You knew better than this, Kristian. Did you forget what I did to Markovic? Was watching him being slowly devoured by snakes not enough to extinguish your greed?” he asked the weeping man, casually throwing another dart that pierced his right collarbone, a hair's breadth from his heart. His voice, distorted by the mask, was deep and strangely familiar, yet she couldn’t place the face behind it. Suddenly, the masked man stretched his arms above his head with a groan, as if waking from a long, tiresome nap.

He walked towards the kneeling, sobbing Kristian and chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver of dread down Fiorenza’s spine. “Send my regards to Markovic in hell! I hope Lucifer is keeping him warm, helping him get rid of all the lovely poison my little friends injected into his system!” he said, running his fingers through his hair again, followed by a sharp click. The red skull mask fell to the floor, landing at Kristian’s knees.

Fiorenza gasped.

No.

This couldn’t be real.

The celebrated savior of the medical world couldn’t be a cruel killer.

Her mind refused to accept that the man who had saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives with his skilled hands was the same man about to extinguish one with those very hands.

Kristian’s gaze followed the fallen mask, his eyes widening in fresh terror as he looked up, flinching just as Fiorenza had, at the sight of Xenia Mikhailov, a cruel smirk twisting his lips, looking like Lucifer himself.

Xenia turned and walked to the table, picking up the remaining half-dozen darts in one swift motion. He turned back and, with terrifying precision, hurled all the darts one after the other, each one finding its mark: forehead, throat, mouth, heart. Kristian gurgled, a desperate, futile attempt to draw breath, but within seconds, his struggle ceased, his body slumping back, his vacant eyes reflecting the horror he had witnessed in his final moments.

Fiorenza stood frozen, her mind reeling. It was still impossible to reconcile the image of the respected doctor with the cold-blooded killer before her. Her thoughts stilled as she heard him chuckle, the sound sending a chill down her spine.

“Did you get scared watching me kill a man, moy tsvetok?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the lifeless body a few feet away. Fiorenza gasped, her breath catching in her throat.

He knew. He knew she had been watching him the entire time? Suddenly, he turned, his silver eyes locking onto hers, making her flinch and stumble backward, her spine hitting a solid wall. She turned to see another hulking figure blocking her escape.

She looked back at Dr. Mikhailov, who was now standing close, his gaze fixed on her face with an unnerving intensity. Before she could react, his large hand clamped onto her elbow, pulling her roughly against his chest, her body pressed tightly against his.

Before she could fully grasp the horrifying reality of the man holding her, a sharp, burning sting pierced her neck. It was a precise invasion, stealing her breath. A strangled cry, weak and unfamiliar, escaped her.

A heavy sluggishness immediately spread through her limbs, her muscles losing their tension. Her vision swam, the edges blurring. Her tongue felt thick, making any attempt to speak a garbled mess. Dizziness washed over her, the floor feeling unsteady. She instinctively clutched at Xenia's shirt, a desperate attempt to stay grounded.

Her breathing grew shallow, each inhale a struggle. A cold numbness crept through her veins, replacing the initial pain with a terrifying detachment. The sounds around her faded, muffled and distant.

The last sensations were the tightening of Xenia's embrace and his dark chuckle vibrating against her ear. His chilling words, "The game is over, moy tsvetok. Eternity begins now!" echoed in her fading awareness before the darkness claimed her.