[ENG.] Azazel - Lucifer's Son

16. Fourty-seven times.

The hours passed in a fog of suppressed anger and violent daydreams.

When class finally ended, I stayed in my seat while my classmates filed out, piling on top of each other in their rush to escape toward the freedom of the afternoon.

Danielle squeezed my hand before she left.

"Thank you," she whispered, eyes glistening. "I'll never forget this."

I nodded, forcing a smile.

Sebastian stopped beside my desk.

"You want me to stay?" he asked, voice low.

"No. Go." I replied without looking at him.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and left, shooting one last glance toward Stan at the front desk.

And then it was just the two of us.

Again.

Alone.

The silence that followed the closing of the door was heavy, dense, almost physical.

Stan was still at the front desk, his back to me, shuffling some papers. I watched him — the line of his shoulders under the shirt, the way his dark hair fell slightly at the nape of his neck, the precise movement of his hands.

Then he spoke, without turning around.

"That report." His voice broke the silence like shattering glass. "It was yours."

It wasn't a question.

Bullseye.

My stomach tightened, but I kept my face neutral. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of watching me flinch.

He finally turned, leaning against the edge of the desk with that studied nonchalance of his. Arms crossed. Those gray eyes fixed on me with an intensity that seemed to cut through every wall I'd built.

"Should I... thank you?" I asked, loading every word with as much venom as I could manage. "For figuring it out? For being so incredibly perceptive?"

A barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm going to drop the formalities, Jolie." He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "Since the professional boundaries are already... blurred."

The word blurred landed loaded with meaning.

I swallowed, but I didn't look away.

"These heroic acts," he continued, almost savoring the words, "these martyr gestures... do they make you better? More noble?"

"They keep Danielle enrolled." I shot back flatly. "That's enough."

"Ah." He pushed off from the desk, taking one step toward me. Just one — but enough to shift the balance of the room. "So you drown so she can swim. Very romantic. Very... self-destructive."

"I don't care what you think—"

"Liar."

The word hit me like a slap. My fists clenched at my sides.

"The fact that I know what you did," he continued, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate, "doesn't mean I'll reward you for it. I won't save you from the consequences of your choices."

Another pause. His eyes didn't waver.

"I won't help you."

And there, in those three words, there was something more. A warning. A challenge. A door closing — or maybe... opening?

"Great." I shot to my feet, the chair scraping loud against the floor. "Because I don't want your help. I don't want your pity, I don't want your understanding, I don't want—"

"My what, Jolie?"

I stopped. There was something in the way he'd said my name.

"I don't want anything from you." I finished, but my voice came out less steady.

Something that could have been approval — or maybe amusement — crossed his eyes. The corner of his mouth lifted in that half-smile I already knew too well.

"Good. Finally something real comes out of that mouth."

I felt heat flood my cheeks. That mouth. Why had he said it like that?

"We're making progress, I see," he added, with a satisfied expression.

"Progress toward what? Getting failed?"

"Toward yourself." He replied, and his tone shifted suddenly to something serious. "You need to understand, Jolie, that helping others while you're drowning doesn't make you a hero. It just makes you reckless."

The anger exploded.

"Don't you dare call me—"

"Sinking with them won't save them." He cut me off, taking another step. He was too close now. Too close. "It'll just drag them deeper."

"What kind of cynical philosophy is that?" I stood up fully, facing him. "Should I turn my back on people who need help? Become selfish and cold like... like you?"

"Exactly." There was no hesitation.

"Selfishness is the foundation of human nature, naïve."

Naïve. That word again, said almost tenderly — but it burned like acid.

"I don't—"

"Think about prehistoric man." Stan began to move, circling around me like a predator studying its prey. "He discovered fire. Fire that could burn entire forests, kill animals, destroy ecosystems."

He stopped in front of the window, backlit — a dark silhouette.

"He used it anyway. The next day. And the one after that. And the one after that." He turned toward me. "He knew the risk. He knew the damage. He did it anyway."

"Because he had to survive—"

"Exactly." His eyes lit up. "He had to survive. He wasn't thinking about the other animals, or the trees, or the future. He was thinking about himself. And thanks to that selfishness..." he made a gesture that included both of us, "...we're here."

I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.

"But this is different! And lucky for me I don't need to light any fire!" My voice rose, each word louder than the last. "I'm not selfish. I won't become like you. And if that means getting failed, fine!"

"Fine?" He repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, fine!" I slapped my open palm on the desk. The sound echoed through the empty classroom. "Go ahead, Professor. Fail me. Give me the F. Do whatever you want."

I leaned toward him, shaking with rage.

"Because it won't change who I am. It won't break me. It won't make me cold and cynical like you."

For a long moment he said nothing. He just looked at me, and in those gray eyes I saw something I couldn't decode — frustration? Respect? Something else?

"Cold and cynical." He repeated quietly, almost to himself. "Is that really how you see me?"

"That's what you are."

"Ah." A bitter smile crossed his face. "Then you don't know me at all, Jolie Vladă."

I gathered my things with sharp, brisk movements — notebook, pen, backpack — and headed for the door with furious steps.

"Jolie."

My hand was already on the handle when his voice stopped me. Not an order. Almost... a plea?

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. If I had looked at him in that moment, something inside me would have broken.

The silence stretched out, thick and loaded.

"That fire I hear in your voice," he said finally, and his voice was different now — quieter, more... real. "That rage that makes your hands shake..."

I looked down. My hands were gripping the handle so hard my knuckles were white.

"That flame that devours you from the inside when something truly touches you..."

I closed my eyes.

"Don't ever put it out, Jolie." A pause. "Not for me. Not for anyone. It's the only thing that will save you when everything else falls apart."

My heart was pounding so loud I thought he could hear it.

"Even if it burns you. Even if it destroys you." His voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper that moved through the room like a ghost. "Especially then. Because that fire is you. The real you."

I wanted to turn around. I wanted to look at him. I wanted to ask him what the hell all of this meant — why one minute he treated me like a stupid child and the next he spoke to me like... like he actually saw me.

But I didn't.

I opened the door and walked out, leaving him there in that empty classroom, his words burned into my mind like a brand.

Since his arrival, Stan had done nothing but poke at me, trying to make me c***k under his provocations. And even though wanting to argue was far from my nature — usually I was calm, reasonable — right now I was on the verge of exploding.

That man was an impossible puzzle.

And half-intelligible statements were his specialty.

"That fire inside you is exactly what you should never put out."

What the hell did that even mean?

Back home, I threw myself onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, trying to organize the chaos in my head.

My phone started ringing almost immediately.

Sebastian, obviously.

I watched the screen light up — Seb with that stupid photo we'd taken months ago — and let it go to voicemail.

It rang again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

I refused to answer my friend's calls several times on principle — I needed to be alone, to think, to not have to explain anything to anyone — until curiosity finally got the better of me.

I pressed the button with the blinking red light.

"God, Jolie, stop being such a child!"

Sebastian's voice filled the room, exasperated but with that affectionate undertone I knew so well.

"I know you're there! When are you going to pick up that damn phone? I'm trying your cell too! You're being ridiculous!"

A pause. I heard his breathing.

"I'm going to stop calling and you'll never know what I had in mind for today. Bye, dragă."

The beep that followed marked the end of the message.

But, unlike what he'd said, Sebastian kept calling again and again, waiting for an answer. The phone kept ringing, relentless, every five minutes.

At the hundredth call — or maybe the hundred and fifth, I'd lost count — sick of that unbearable ringtone drilling into my ears, I finally picked up, fully aware I was about to get an earful.

"Finally, copil!!" Sebastian's voice exploded from the phone. "Do you know how many times I called? FORTY-SEVEN. I counted, Jolie. Forty-seven times."

Child.

"Congratulations on your math skills," I replied flatly. "Want a prize?"

"I want you to stop acting like a child." I heard the rustle of him moving. Probably running a hand through his hair, that nervous habit of his. "I genuinely don't think there's a more stubborn person than you in the entire western hemisphere."

"Western hemisphere?" I couldn't help smiling, despite everything. "Did you take up geography?"

"I've been studying the art of tolerating my impossible best friend." A pause. "I swear I was about to give up."

"Liar."

"Okay, fine, I never would have given up." He laughed. "But admit it — I was impressively persistent."

"I'll admit you were impressively annoying."

"Same thing."

I rolled my eyes, almost as if he could see me.

"You should've done it on the first try, tâmpit." i***t. "Now, quickly please — tell me what you want before I decide to hang up on you again."

"So aggressive today." His tone shifted to something more serious. "What happened, Jo? And don't say 'nothing' because I know you. First things first — I want to know why you did what you did today."

Short and direct, the way he always was when he was genuinely worried.

I sighed, dropping back onto the couch.

"Honestly? I don't even know myself." The words came out more tired than I meant them to. "It was like... everyone wanted to pat me on the back and tell me 'poor thing, it'll be okay.' Dan looking at me with this gratitude, you with that sympathetic face—"

"I did NOT have a sympathetic face!"

"You had EXACTLY a sympathetic face. Like I was some soggy little kitten that needed rescuing."

"You're more of an angry kitten that hisses, if we're being precise."

Despite everything, I huffed out a laugh.

"See? That's exactly the problem. I don't want to be poor little Jolie who needs saving. I want to be the Jolie who saves other people and doesn't give a damn about the consequences."

"Even when the consequences include Stan failing you?"

The name dropped between us like a stone in a pond.

"Especially then." I replied, but my voice wavered slightly. "I yelled at him, Seb. I basically told him to do whatever he wants, that he won't break me."

"Wow." A low whistle. "And him?"

I stopped. What had he done?

"Don't ever put it out."

"He..." I swallowed. "It's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"Complicated like 'I don't want to talk about it right now' complicated."

Sebastian was quiet for a few seconds. Then:

"Okay. But you know you're going to tell me eventually, right?"

"I know."

"Good." I could hear the smile coming back into his voice. "Then let's move on to more important things. Why exactly were you seriously thinking about what Stan would look like with a broken nose?"

"I didn't tell you that."

"You just told me. Friendship telepathy."

"You're impossible."

"And you're dodging the question."

I sighed.

"Because his face is way too perfect and it annoys me."

"Ah." Sebastian's tone went teasing. "So you're admitting he's perfect."

"I said he has a perfect face. Not that HE is perfect."

"Same thing, dragă."

"Absolutely not."

"So if I said 'that girl has a perfect body,' you'd think I was only talking about her body?"

"Seb—"

"Exactly. Admit it. You find Stan attractive."

"I find Stan irritating."

"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." He laughed. "But you know what? I genuinely couldn't tell you how Stan would look with a broken nose. What I can tell you with complete certainty is that YOU with a failing grade would look absolutely terrible."

The conversation turned serious again.

"I know." I admitted quietly.

"Then why'd you do it? Why did you give Dan your report?"

"Because..." I searched for the right words. "Because she was about to completely fall apart, Seb. Three student loans. Working every night. Not eating. Not sleeping. If she lost that scholarship..."

"She would've crashed, and now you're crashing instead."

"But at least she's safe."

"And you're an idiot." He said it with warmth. "A brave i***t, but still an idiot."

"You're such a comfort."

"I'm not here to make you feel better with lies. I'm here to tell you the truth." A pause. "Remind me never to confide in you, by the way. You might use it against me."

"Like you ever have secrets."

"Oh, sweetheart. Everyone has secrets."

There was something in his tone that made me want to ask, but then Sebastian changed the subject entirely.

"Anyway. Get ready."

"For what?"

"Shock therapy for irritating professors and terrible days." His voice went enthusiastic. "Get your warrior gear on. Today we throw things!"

My heart picked up immediately.

"Oh God, yes." I jumped up from the couch. "Seb, I love you. I literally need this more than air."

"I knew it!" He sounded pleased with himself. "Get ready, sweetheart. I'm picking you up in twenty minutes. One important rule: no Kingknife, no indoor venues where we have to behave ourselves."

"Where then?"

"Epping Forest." He said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "Open air, trees to destroy, and absolutely no one to bother us."

"Perfect." I smiled for the first time in hours. "Twenty minutes?"

"Twenty minutes. And Jolie?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring the good knives. The ones that actually do damage."

"Always."

He hung up before I could say another word, leaving me with a smile on my face and something slightly better in my chest.

I ran to my room and threw open the wardrobe, pulling out my black training suit — full-length, reinforced, built for throwing. I pulled it on quickly, enjoying the familiar feel of the technical fabric against my skin.

I tied my hair in a messy bun — it didn't need to be pretty, it just needed to stay out of my face.

Then I opened the hidden drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled out a worn black suede case.

I set it on the bed and opened it carefully, revealing my full knife collection.

I had many — every kind: from the most classic to the most elegant, from the cheap ones to those made of worked silver. All precisely arranged in order of importance, each in its own velvet compartment.

There were the balanced throwing knives, with stainless steel blades. The decorative ones with carved handles. There were even the old ones — inherited, with stories I would never tell anyone.

But the last knife in the row was the most precious.

I looked at it without touching it — I would never take it out, never risk losing it or damaging it.

The handle was carved from a thousand-year-old linden tree in Steinfurt, Germany. The tree was known as the "dancing tree" — a linden so ancient that the locals used to dance around it during summer festivals.

The blade was pure gold, thin and exactly twenty centimeters long. Perfectly balanced. A work of art more than a weapon.

But the real value for me came from the blue sapphire set among the grain of the handle — a sapphire taken from one of my mother's necklaces, the only thing I had managed to save.

Around the stone ran elegant carvings that gave the piece class, refinement, and a quiet nobility. It was beautiful. Lethal and beautiful.

Like some people, I thought, and the image of Stan crossed my mind before I could stop it.

I shook my head and closed the case.

From the collection I chose the most worn-down knives — the ones I could afford to damage, the ones already marked by use — and arranged them in my bag along with a towel and a water bottle.

I pulled on my heavy black coat — it was cold, and the forest would be worse — and just as I was wrestling with the buttons, trying to fasten them with cold fingers, the doorbell rang.

I grabbed the bag, slung it over one shoulder, and went to open the door.

Sebastian was there, leaning against the doorframe, wearing that smug grin of his.

"Ready to tear some trees apart, dragă?"

"Always."

And for the first time all day, I smiled — and meant it.