When Volkov casually mentioned Sasha's so-called interest in him, Beom's stomach twisted. He froze, his fingers tightening against his temples. "What did you just say?" he asked, his voice slow and deliberate, though it quivered at the edges.
Volkov didn't flinch. "I said it seems Yaroslav took a special liking to you," he repeated with a smirk, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant. "From what I've gathered, he enjoyed toying with you, breaking you down." He leaned back, his walking stick resting beside him like a symbol of his steady, immovable nature. "Though, I must admit, I didn't expect you to survive. That's something worth noting."
Beom's chest tightened, a flash of memories surging forward like a wave crashing against him. Sasha's hands, the sickening grin on his face, the way he whispered threats laced with venom. The pain, the humiliation, the violation—it all came rushing back. His breathing quickened, his fists clenched at his sides as his vision blurred with the intensity of his emotions.
"Damn you, Sasha," Beom growled, his voice trembling with raw anger. His thoughts spiraled, each one more venomous than the last. He played with me. Used me. Mocked me like I was some toy to be broken and discarded. The fury bubbled to the surface, uncontrollable, as he grabbed the nearest object—a pillow—and hurled it across the room. It hit the floor with a muted thud, but the action didn't satisfy the rage burning inside him.
Volkov raised an eyebrow but said nothing, watching Beom with a calculating gaze. The man's silence only fueled Beom's anger further. "He had the chance to kill me," Beom spat, his voice rising as he tried to piece together the puzzle in his mind. "He injected me with that drug. He could've ended it all right there, but he didn't. Why?"
His mind raced with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. Was it a game? Some twisted experiment? Or was it something worse? Did he enjoy watching me struggle, watching me cling to life like a fool? Beom's thoughts were a whirlwind of rage and despair, his heart pounding in his chest.
Volkov finally broke his silence, his voice calm but firm. "Because Sasha doesn't work alone. He's part of Crimson Vanguard. And they don't just kill for sport—they kill with purpose. If you're alive, it means you're useful to them, at least for now."
The mention of Crimson Vanguard sent a chill down Beom's spine. The name carried a weight, a sense of dread that settled in his chest like lead. "Crimson Vanguard," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "What are they?"
Volkov leaned forward, his expression darkening. "They're not just an agency; they're a global powerhouse. Their reach extends into governments, military operations, and underground networks. They control economies, topple regimes, and eliminate threats without a trace. They don't operate in the shadows—they are the shadows."
Beom swallowed hard, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of what Volkov was describing. If Sasha—no, Yaroslav—was a part of this organization, then Beom was caught in something far bigger than himself. Why me? he thought, the question echoing in his mind. Why am I the one they chose to keep alive?
Volkov continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "Sasha, or Yaroslav as you know him, isn't just an operative. He's one of their best. Brilliant, ruthless, and completely unpredictable. He's the kind of man who can make you think you've won, only to pull the rug out from under you. And he enjoys it."
The bile rose in Beom's throat as Volkov spoke. His mind flashed back to Sasha's smirk, the way he always seemed to be one step ahead. He's not just a monster; he's a predator, and I was his prey. Beom's jaw tightened, his fists clenching as the rage boiled over again.
"He's working for someone," Beom muttered, his voice low but filled with conviction. "This wasn't just about me. He has a bigger motive. Something Crimson Vanguard wants."
Volkov nodded. "Exactly. And that makes you valuable—to him, to them. You've become a piece on their chessboard, Beom-ki. But remember, pieces are disposable."
The words hit Beom like a blow. Disposable. The idea of being used, manipulated, and then discarded was almost too much to bear. But beneath the despair, a fire began to burn. If I'm a piece on their board, then I'll be the one to flip the table.
He met Volkov's gaze, his eyes filled with determination. "I won't let them win," he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. "Sasha, Crimson Vanguard—they don't get to decide my fate."
Beom's mind struggled to keep up with the revelations, each one more jarring than the last. His voice came out uneven, filled with disbelief. "So that means... Yaroslav is not only an agent but also the son of a mafia boss? Is that even possible?" The words felt foreign as they left his mouth, the absurdity of it all making his head spin.
Volkov leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "Yes," he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of grim certainty.
Beom stared at him, his thoughts racing like a storm. An agent of a secret organization and the heir to a mafia empire? What kind of life produces someone like that? No wonder he's so twisted. How do you even begin to understand someone who operates in two completely different worlds—worlds already steeped in darkness?
His chest tightened as he tried to process it all. Sasha, or Yaroslav—whatever name he went by—wasn't just a psychopath playing games. He was a product of two worlds that bred control, manipulation, and absolute power. Beom's fingers twitched as he thought about the man, about the smirks, the cold stares, the calculated moves. This wasn't just about money or control for him. This was personal. But why me?
Beom rubbed his temples again, the pressure in his head refusing to ease. "How does that even happen?" he asked, almost to himself. "An agent… and a mafia prince? What does that even look like? Does he have loyalty to anyone?"
Volkov's smirk returned, though it was faint, more of a grim acknowledgment than amusement. "It's rare, but not impossible. Yaroslav's father—Mikhail Olegovich Vyshnevsky—is one of the most powerful mafia bosses in Eastern Europe. Ruthless, cunning, and unyielding. Crimson Vanguard saw potential in Yaroslav from a young age. They trained him, molded him. But make no mistake, he still holds ties to the mafia. They're his blood, his foundation. It's what makes him so dangerous. He can think like an agent but act like a criminal. He's unpredictable."
Beom's jaw tightened as Volkov spoke, the words painting a picture of someone both terrifying and enigmatic. Sasha's behavior made more sense now—the arrogance, the control, the way he seemed to revel in chaos. He wasn't just skilled; he was born and bred for this life. But what does that mean for me?
The thought clawed at him, making his stomach churn. If Sasha was both an agent and a mafia prince, then his motives ran deeper than Beom could fathom. Does he see me as a challenge? A game piece? Or is it something worse? The uncertainty gnawed at him, leaving him both angry and terrified.
"Why would Crimson Vanguard let someone with mafia ties into their organization?" Beom asked, his voice sharp with frustration. "Doesn't that go against everything they stand for?"
Volkov chuckled darkly. "Crimson Vanguard doesn't care about loyalty, Beom-ki. They care about results. Yaroslav's dual identity makes him one of their most valuable assets. He can move between worlds seamlessly, operate in places others can't, and eliminate threats without leaving a trace. To them, he's perfect. A weapon with no equal."
Beom's hands curled into fists at his sides. The more he learned about Sasha, the more he felt like he was suffocating under the weight of it all. How do you fight someone like that? Someone who's always ten steps ahead, someone who's been trained to destroy people like me since birth?
The rage simmered beneath his skin, but so did the fear. He hated it—hated feeling powerless, hated knowing that Sasha had so much control over his life. But most of all, he hated the idea that Sasha might have spared him not out of mercy, but out of some twisted sense of amusement.
Beom's voice was barely above a whisper as he muttered, "That bastard… he's been playing this game his whole life."
Volkov nodded, his expression grim. "And he's very good at it. But remember, Beom-ki, even the best players have their weaknesses. You just need to find his."
Beom swallowed hard, his mind racing. Weakness? Does someone like Sasha even have one? Or has he buried it so deep that no one can reach it?
Beom felt a flicker of determination cut through the chaos. If Sasha thinks he can toy with me, he's wrong. I'll find his weakness, no matter how long it takes. And when I do, I'll make sure he knows exactly what it feels like to lose everything.
Volkov smirked faintly, standing up and grabbing his walking stick. "Good," he said. "You'll need that fire. Rest, Beom-ki. Get back on your feet. You'll need your strength for what's coming." With that, he turned and walked toward the door.
But before he left, he glanced back, a shadow of a smirk on his lips. "Oh, and it seems Yaroslav really took a liking to your… assets."
Beom froze, the words slicing through him like a knife. The memories came flooding back, vivid and unrelenting. His body stiffened as his mind replayed Sasha's touch, his mocking words, the sheer violation of it all. His breath hitched, and his hands trembled as anger consumed him once more.
"DAMN YOU, YAROSLAV!" Beom roared, his voice cracking with fury and anguish. He grabbed another pillow and threw it with all his strength, watching as it hit the wall and fell to the floor. But the action did little to quell the storm inside him.
I'll make you pay, he thought, his chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his eyes. I'll make you regret ever crossing me.