The cell was so quiet you could hear water dripping from a rusty faucet in the corner. Lom’s six helpers held their breath. Even the beaten man on the floor lifted his head, waiting for blood.
Sasha Sever slowly—very slowly—raised his hand. Not to strike. Not to block. He simply touched the blade with one finger and moved it aside, like brushing a branch out of his way on a trail.
“Put that thing away,” he said softly. “You’ll hurt yourself.” Lom blinked, thrown completely off balance. This was so far outside the script his brain—used to simple patterns of domination—misfired.
He stepped back half a pace, though he didn’t lower the knife. “What are you, immortal?” he asked, less sure of himself now. “No,” Sever said, looking straight through those dark lenses and into the man. “I’m alive.
“You, Lom—you’re already dead. You died the day you decided strength gave you the right to act like an animal.” Sever took one step forward, and Lom, obeying some animal instinct of his own, stepped back again.
The man walked past him as if he were empty air and headed for the table. On the filthy tabletop sat a mug of strong tea and a half-eaten piece of bread. Sever pushed the mug aside with visible distaste, set his little bag on the bench, and sat down.
That was an open challenge. In this cell, only Lom sat at the table. Everybody else stood or sat on the floor. Taking the leader’s place without permission was the same as declaring war.
“Get up!” squealed one of Lom’s men, a wiry junkie they called Needle. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s Lom’s seat!” Needle grabbed an aluminum bowl and swung it, aiming straight for Sever’s head.
Sever didn’t even turn around. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and calmly tapped one loose. “Sit down,” he said, without raising his voice.
And Needle sat down—not because he wanted to. His legs simply gave out under him. There was so much authority packed into those two words that his body obeyed before his mind could object.
The bowl clattered onto the concrete floor. Watching all this, Lom felt the ground shift under him. The power he had spent months building was collapsing right in front of his eyes.
Some old man had turned his wolf pack into a bunch of confused puppies in under two minutes. Rage—hot and sticky—shot straight to his head. If he didn’t kill this man now, tomorrow they’d wipe the floor with him.
In this world, mercy had no place. “Take him out!” Lom screamed, his voice cracking. “All of you! Hit him! Anybody who hangs back goes down with him!”
This was the point of no return. The six men exchanged glances. The order was clear enough. They were used to hurting people as a group. It was safer that way. Familiar.
They moved toward the table, fists clenched. Lom led the way, shifting the shank into a better grip for an upward stab under the ribs. Sever finally lit his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.
And when the attackers were just two steps away, he took off his glasses. For the first time, they saw his eyes. They were not ordinary eyes. They looked like the twin barrels of a gun aimed point-blank—cold, gray, empty.
The eyes of a man who had gone through hell so many times he had become part of it. “Whoever takes one more step,” Sever said, his voice scraping like a tombstone dragged over stone, “signs in blood. Not his own. His children’s.”
The attackers froze. It was a strange threat, hard to place. Usually men in here promised broken legs or busted teeth. “Don’t try to scare us, old man!” Lom shouted, but there was a tremor in his voice.
“You’ve got nobody. You’re alone, and there are seven of us.” “I’m never alone,” Sever said evenly. “I’ve got people behind me. I’ve got the truth behind me.
“Behind you, Lom, there’s only a major who already sold you out.” Lom went still. The words hit him like a slap. “What did you say? You think they threw me in here with you by accident?”
Sever smiled, and that smile was worse than a snarl. “The major promised you freedom for my head? You fool. He put me in here so I could remove you for him.
“You know too much. You’ve become a liability.” Was it true? Was it a lie? In a world built on manipulation and betrayal, the line between the two is always blurry.
But once a seed of doubt lands in soil already soaked with fear, it grows fast. Lom lowered the shank. Sever’s words dropped into the silence of the cell like heavy stones into muddy water.
Lom stood there with the homemade knife hanging at his side, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Inside his head—used to simple orders—something painful and complicated was happening. Fear of the legendary inmate was now fighting with fear of the prison administration.
“You’re lying,” Lom rasped, but the steel was gone from his voice. “The major gave me his word. He needs me. I keep order in here.” Sever took a slow drag, blew smoke right into the big man’s face, and gave a dry little smile.
“Order?” he repeated. “You don’t keep order, Lom. You keep filth. And when there’s too much filth, the owner grabs a rag, wipes it up, and throws it away.
“That’s what you are, Lom. A dirty used rag.” He nodded toward the heavy closed door. “Use that bull head of yours for a minute. Why do you think they put me in here alone? No escort. No search.”
