Slowly, deliberately, I lower the gun.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“I want justice,” I say, my voice shaking but unbroken. “Not blood.”
Konstantin doesn’t hesitate. His hands close around the weapon, and in one precise motion, he fires. Clean. Lethal. Final.
Markov slumps backward, lifeless, the echo of the shot bouncing off the walls.
The war ends.
I collapse into Konstantin’s arms, trembling—not from fear, but from release, from exhaustion, from the weight of everything finally tipping into closure.
And then I remember—he’s been shot.
I pull back, panic flashing in my chest, fingers tracing the blood staining his shirt.
“We need to go. You’ve been shot.”
He laughs—low, rough, shaking his head. “I’m okay. Don’t you dare freak out on me now.”
I fuss anyway, tugging at his vest, pressing my hands to his shoulder.
He tightens his arms around me despite the wound, and I feel it—solid, unshakable.
“You saved me,” he murmurs into my hair, breath hot against my neck.
I press my forehead to his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath my hand. “No,” I whisper back, voice trembling. “You saved me long before tonight.”
He tilts his head, curiosity and something softer flickering in his eyes. “How did I save you?”
I take a slow breath, letting the words settle over us. “You took me from that naive life I had. You protected me before the enemy could reach me. You loved me…honored me…made me feel safe, even when everything around us was chaos.”
A slow smile curls over his lips, shadowed by fatigue and blood, yet alive. “That’s nothing compared to the life I’ll give you now,” he murmurs, voice low, almost feral.
I shake my head, voice trembling again. “You’ve already slain all my demons. I don’t want anything else.”
He rolls his eyes, mock exasperation in his glance. “Too late,” he says, as if the universe has already signed the deal.
From the doorway, the brothers’ voices cut through, practical and sharp. “We have to burn the warehouse,” Lev says. “Nothing can be left standing.”
Konstantin exhales, one hand still holding mine, the other brushing across my back. “Then we burn it,” he says, voice carrying the weight of a promise, a warning, and a vow all at once. “Everything Markov touched ends tonight.”
Konstantin releases my hand only long enough to move.
The brothers scatter with practiced ease—Roman splashing accelerant along the walls, Lev snapping open fuel canisters, Dimitri wiring charges with grim efficiency. This isn’t rage. It’s ritual. Clean. Deliberate. An ending they’ve performed before.
Konstantin strikes the lighter.
The flame blooms small and harmless in his palm for half a second—then he flicks it.
Fire catches.
It races along the floor in a hungry line, climbing crates, licking up rusted beams, devouring paper and secrets and lies. The heat rolls outward in a violent breath, forcing me to step back. I do. I don’t look away.
I stand at the edge of the loading bay, arms wrapped around myself, watching the warehouse burn from the inside out.
This is where my father’s truth was buried.