Chapter 2

I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.

Rezan's pov

The club's a circus, a golden nightmare. Smells like money, but it's got the soul of a crack house. The walls are more polished than my mood, and the air's thick with expensive cologne and the stench of desperation, give it to Russians to choose something like this. Every asshole in this room thinks they're untouchable, their ego towering higher than their bank accounts. But they're all just players in a game they don't understand.

Zyran's a fucking king in a room full of pawns, but I don't let my admiration slip. I follow him like the obedient shadow I am, hands in my pockets, face as unreadable as I can make it. Dehrin's walking beside me, looking like he's about to start a fight with the nearest chandelier. The kid's a walking hurricane of chaos, and right now, he's scowling at the shiny nonsense around us like it owes him money.

"You sure you're not gonna have a meltdown, Rin?" I tease, keeping my voice low enough to avoid drawing attention.

He gives me the finger without breaking stride. "You sure you're not gonna choke on all that suit-wearing, cock-swinging superiority?"

I grin. "At least I don't look like I walked into a trash bin, then decided to 'own it.'"

"Fuck off," Dehrin mutters, shoving past me.

I can't help but laugh. If you ever want to see chaos in human form, look no further than my brother. The guy lives in a constant state of pissed-off, ready to burn down the world and all it takes is the right button to push.

"Man, this place is too goddamn shiny," he mutters, flicking his hoodie like it's some sort of weapon. "It's like someone dipped this joint in glitter. What the fuck is this?" The guy's got the vibe of a pissed-off dog that just got dragged to a family reunion. I don't blame him.

I glance at him, smirking. "It's called 'class.' Something you wouldn't understand if it slapped you in the face with a velvet glove."

He looks at me like I just kicked his puppy. "Class? Bro, I didn't sign up for this fuckin' fashion show. I'm just trying to breathe without getting my eyes burned by all this gold."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Gold's the least of your problems. Your entire wardrobe's a crime against fashion. Are you trying to start a fight or audition for a biker gang?"

Dehrin flips his collar up like he's auditioning for some shitty action movie. "Better than your 'I'm a rich prick and I know it' look. Look at you, suit so tight I can practically hear it crying for freedom."

I'm practically glowing with self-appreciation as I readjust my jacket. "It's called looking sharp, love. You wouldn't get it. You're like a walking wrecking ball with daddy's credit card, pretending you're some rebellious badass. You're a joke."

Dehrin smirks. "Jokes on you our father's dead so it's your credit card I've been using"

This brat-

And right on cue, Cihan's voice cuts through the air like a buzzkill. "Are you two done yet? Can't you go five minutes without pretending you're still in high school?"

I roll my eyes, giving him the best innocent look I can muster. "Come on, Cihan, you know you love us. We're just spicing up your boring life."

His face hardens like he's one annoyed breath away from throwing us out. "You two are ridiculous. If you want to act like children, take it somewhere else. We're here to make a fucking deal, not star in a bad comedy."

Dehrin gives our older brother a grin that could be mistaken for a challenge. "What? You worried we're gonna break something? Or is it that we're making you look even more uptight than usual?"

Cihan shakes his head, clearly done with us. "If you break anything, you're cleaning it up. Now, shut up and focus." And we do.

The whole place reeks of fake smiles, expensive cigars, and men pretending they don't have skeletons in their closets. It's the kind of place where you shake hands with a devil and walk out wondering if you just sold your soul.

And then there's Rurik. The Russian elephant in the room, standing by his table, grinning like he just struck gold.

This bald penguin ever stops eating? look at that.

The guy's got a face like an old meat grinder and a stomach to match. His accent's thick enough to cut with a knife, but his words are smooth. Like he's trying to sell ice to an Ostrich. I don't trust him, hell, I don't trust anyone in this place but I trust Zyran. And when he's in charge, the deal goes exactly as planned, no matter how fucked up it looks from the outside.

Rurik's already talking numbers before the rest of us can even sit down. He's fast, thinking he's got us all figured out. But Zyran's not the type to be rushed. He just slides into his seat like the room belongs to him, face impassive, eyes calculating.

"Gentlemen, I believe we've reached an understanding," Rurik says, leaning back in his chair, pushing out his chest like he's about to announce he's won the lottery. His eyes flick over us, gauging our reactions, but he doesn't know us. He doesn't know what it means to play this game.

"Let's be clear," Zyran replies, his voice like steel, but quiet enough to make the room lean in. "We're here because we made an agreement. Your word's only as good as your actions. If you fuck us over, I'll make sure you regret it."

Rurik's smile falters for half a second before it returns, more forced now. "Of course, of course. No one here wants any trouble, Mr. Demir."

I snort quietly at the way he's trying to butter my brother up. This whole thing's a fucking joke. But then again, maybe it's not. Zyran's a shark, and Rurik's just the fish that thinks it can swim with him.

The air's thick with tension as the deal gets finalized. Paperwork gets signed, hands get shaken, but I know better than to relax. Deals like this never go smoothly. Not when you're dealing with scumbags who think they're above everything. But Zyran doesn't let the cracks show. The man's a goddamn machine when it comes to this shit.

Once everything's on paper, Rurik stands, his round belly jiggling under his suit. "Now," he says, with a look that says he's about to win a prize, "there's one final thing. The girls."

The room quiets, like someone dropped a bomb in the middle of it. Every eye shifts to him, and suddenly, it's not just about the deal anymore. It's about power. Control. The kind of stuff you can't buy.

Dehrin snorts under his breath, but I catch the look on his face. Disgust. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the same way it does when he's about to break someone's neck. But he keeps it cool. For now.

I lean back in my chair, watching the show unfold. "And what about the girls, Rurik? You planning to parade them around like some trophy animals?"

Rurik's grin widens. "Ah, Rezan, always the sharp tongue. These are gifts, my friends. To seal the deal."

fat fuck.

"Gifts?" Zyran's voice is cold, flat—no sign of anger, but the warning's there. "We don't take women as 'gifts,' Rurik."

Rurik leans in, the smile never leaving his face, like he's enjoying every second of this. "In our world, a gift is a symbol of respect, Mr. Demir. Something to show your appreciation."

Ah. He's following the disgusting tradition.

Zyran's eyes narrow, and for a second, the whole room holds its breath. The tension's thick enough to slice through with a knife. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, Zyran speaks, his voice low but firm. "I'll take one. The rest go to an orphanage. If I find out anything happens to them..." His eyes darken, and even Rurik flinches, but he quickly masks it with a chuckle.

"Of course, of course. One, it is," Rurik says, barely containing his amusement. "Let's make this quick."

Then the door swings open, and they walk in one by one, the girls, shuffled in like cattle for slaughter. Eyes cast down, their movements hesitant, like they've long given up on hope. It's a gut punch, watching them.

But then I see her.

The one in red.

At first glance, she looks just like the rest head lowered, body tense, not looking up. But it takes me all of two seconds to notice the difference. The way she angles herself ever so slightly in front of two other girls, like a flimsy human shield. The way her fingers twitch, not in fear, but restraint like she wants to fight but knows she'll lose. She's terrified. But she's still standing.

I tilt my head, watching her for a second longer than I should. There's something in her. Something defiant, even in this hell.

Dehrin nudges me, leaning in. "You into red, huh?"

I turn to him, letting a grin slip. "Unlike you i don't think with my dick all the time, brat."

Dehrin shrugs, his expression unreadable. "Bet she's still just another fuckin' plaything for these idiots."

I can't disagree with him, but there's something about her I can't shake.

Thank you!

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