She Will Return

Early sunlight pooled across the café’s tiled floor as Alexei and Aisha waited in silence. Each time the door swung open, a burst of cold air slipped inside. Guests jostled past, nudging them closer in a way that felt forced, too intimate. A sheen of sweat gathered on Aisha’s forehead, the heat doing nothing to ease the tightness coiling in her chest. She savored each breath of cold air drifting in from the street.

Then, from downstairs, shouting erupted: male voices, loud and slurred, bleeding sharply into the café’s gentle hum.

On the small stage tucked into the café’s rear, two men in fatigues faced off, rifles slung low across their backs. Their voices cut through the room, sharp and heated. More clash than conversation.

Aisha stiffened, breath catching as she angled for a better look. Heat flared down her spine, sharp and invasive, leaving a taut ache in its wake.

A young man with shoulder-length curls glanced up, his gaze locking with hers for a moment too long. He liked what he saw: lean, watchful, disarmingly attractive. He caught the shift in her posture, amusement flickering in his eyes. He handed off his rifle and threaded through the tables, moving with unsettling precision. People shifted instinctively, sensing him before seeing him.

He stopped a breath too close, his body heat brushing her skin. Sweat beaded at his brow, but his breathing stayed steady.

He lifted Aisha’s hand and kissed it, light and lingering, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Lisitsyn,” he said smoothly, offering his name. “Were you listening to our little debate?”

Aisha said nothing, her gaze steady. A flicker crossed her face, curiosity or caution, as though she hovered between laughter and retreating behind the walls she’d built to survive.

Lisitsyn’s smirk widened. “No? Then forgive us. My comrade blames a drunken foreigner for stealing his wife,” he said lightly. “But Pasternak understood: war displaces people. Turns wives into exiles, poets into ghosts… even working girls into shadows. Don’t you agree?”

He froze theatrically, eyebrow raised, before a tsunami of laughter crashed across the table.

Alexei leaned back beside Aisha, one arm draped over his chair. His smirk wasn’t approval; it was possession. The kind that turns amusement into permission.

Then another figure approached: Vladimir, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed. The room seemed to tighten around him.

“You put lips on her hand, Lisitsyn?” he snarled. “Christ, you’re a fool.”

Lisitsyn only laughed. “She’s elegant. Why wouldn’t I?”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Vladimir muttered.

Aisha met his gaze, calm and unapologetic. Her chin lifted slightly.

“You sound afraid.”

Vladimir’s lip curled, stung by a woman who dared respond. “People like you don’t last long.”

Alexei chuckled once.

All sound in the café died almost instantly.

From the candle sitting atop the covered piano, Lakita watched. Unseen. Unfelt.

Invisible, yet far from absent.

As far as unseen Controllers go, she played the silent observer well, almost as good as me. Her reach stretched far beyond sight. She read the twitch behind Alexei’s calm. Smelled the rot braided into his charm. Heard the air vibrating with the faint static that precedes a storm.

Something in the spirit stirred.

Essence had chosen Aisha, though Lakita doubted the choice. She had never trusted blind selection. There was always more beneath the surface. Always a cost.

Beneath the strength was something older, a weight Lakita could not immediately classify and therefore did not trust. Another reason, she thought, to question the selection.

Aisha, for all her strength, still believed survival was a matter of will: cleverness, effort, determination. Charming, in its way, but misguided. Lakita saw this clearly in Aisha… though not in herself.

That was a mistake, albeit a dangerous one: Lakita underestimated Essence.

Survival does not care how hard you try. It never has. Often it was luck, fate, fortune. A fleeting spirit was often at work. Sometimes naughty. Sometimes devious. Usually an ignorant miscreant spirit that often was made out to be an angel. Imagine that!

Lakita had watched long enough to know the girl would need pain to learn the truth.

The beggar had been a test. She’d interfered then, just a nudge. A small disruption.

But this… this was something else.

She leaned forward.

Not an intervention.

Not yet.

Just a push.

Lakita’s thoughts thread outward, slipping into Alexei’s mind like smoke.

She is already dangerously close to reprimand. Controllers are required to allow free will, even when mortals weaponize it against themselves.

She does not speak.

She does not command.

She listens, close, too close.

You crave her. She makes you feel powerful. They admire you more when she’s on your arm.

These are Alexei’s thoughts, rising in sequence. Lakita follows them like footsteps in a dark corridor.

But she doesn’t want you. The rejection burns. You need to make her want you. And if you can’t… no one else will.

She does not invent his hunger; she only brightens it, lets it burn where it already smolders.

As Lakita shifts her attention, something in Alexei tightens. His pupils narrow. His smile hardens, then tilts.

His gaze slides toward the corner.

Not in confusion.

In recognition.

Lakita goes still.

He sees her.

Not fully. Not by name. But something within him, something watching from the inside, knows.

Her breath slows.

This one is not just a vessel.

Something deeper rides within him.

Or perhaps… beside him.

His companions’ laughter continues until Alexei cuts it short with a single look.

“We’ll discuss everything when Medved arrives,” he says smoothly. “Right now, I want to be alone with Aisha.”

Vladimir’s gaze lingers on her too long. A slow, deliberate crawl meant to provoke.

“Sure, Alexei. Spend time with your… friend.”

Aisha says nothing. She doesn’t flinch.

But inside, something sharp begins to take shape.

Aisha exhales sharply, the weight of his gaze pressing into her.

She didn’t speak. But her eyes sharpened, accusing and cold.

“You don’t love anyone,” she muttered, her voice quiet, but sharp enough to slice through the air. The words weren’t aimed at him alone. More like a confession, a curse, something she needed to speak aloud to the spirits that might be listening. “You only like the power of knowing no one else can have them.”

Her gaze flicked to his, cold and unforgiving. But beneath his hardness, something revealed itself: an old hurt, buried deep, too raw for Alexei to see. Maybe he sensed the pain he had reignited this morning. The betrayal. The kind of pain she’d been hiding from for too long, not ready to acknowledge, but there, like a wound that refused to heal.

Alexei’s smirk barely shifts, the corners of his mouth twitching with something like amusement, though it never quite reaches his eyes. Without a word, he reaches toward her, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The touch lingers, almost tender, but deliberate: a silent claim, an unspoken reminder of his control over her.

A single drop slips down her cheek, tracing the path of pain she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t flinch. Her expression hardens, fortifying her emotional armor, as if the tear itself were an enemy she had to conquer.

She pulls back, a laugh escaping her, a dry, sharp sound, empty of humor, because a real laugh would require energy she no longer had to give.

“Is that what you call this?”

Alexei stands for a moment, raises his arm and signals for coffee with a lazy flick of his hand before sliding back into his seat. A black-haired slender server with impeccable designer nails appears promptly, placing the cup before him with practiced efficiency, then vanishes into the background, almost unnoticed.

Aisha catches his eyes trailing the server as she walks away.

As his associates drift into their own conversations, Alexei keeps his eyes on Aisha, watching her in silence. He sets his cup aside slowly, deliberately, his movements almost ritualistic. When he speaks, his voice is low, measured, tinged with a thin veil of irritation.

“How long are you going to stay angry? You know we’re good together.”

He reaches for her hand, not to comfort, but to examine her willingness. His grip is firm. A claim.

“Aisha, I want to keep you safe. Far from those who would destroy your family. Stay with me.”

She laughs again, but it’s brittle, more of a subdued cackle, as if the sound itself could break if she pushed it too far.

As his associates drift into their own conversations, Alexei keeps his eyes on Aisha, watching her in silence. He sets his cup aside slowly, deliberately, his movements almost ritualistic. When he speaks, his voice is low, measured, tinged with a thin veil of irritation.

“How long are you going to stay angry? You know we’re good together.”

He reaches for her hand, not to comfort, but to examine her willingness. His grip is firm. A claim.

“Aisha, I want to keep you safe. Far from those who would destroy your family. Stay with me.”

She laughs again, but it’s brittle, more of a subdued cackle, as if the sound itself could break if she pushed it too far.

Alexei’s jaw tightens, a shadow crossing his face. He chooses his words, smooth and patient, but with a cold edge to them.

“It’s never that simple.”

“YOU have them,” she repeats, her voice low and deadly. “You ARE the government.”

He leans back, unshaken, his posture casual but commanding. The softness of his words is a weapon. “You’re upset, Aisha. And when you’re upset, you twist things. You’re imagining enemies again. Maybe it’s the stress or the drugs. Think about it. I never promised this would be easy. I just want to make you happy.”

A bitter smile cracks across her face, brittle and sharp. “Is this what you call it, happiness? You think keeping me locked in a fancy room is ‘happy’?”

“Happiness?” He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharpening, almost with amusement. “It’s quite clear you don’t believe in that anymore. Perhaps ‘safe’ and ‘alive’ are all I can offer.”

He squeezes her hand once, his grip firm, then releases it slowly, deliberately, as if letting go were a favor, an act of restraint on his part.

Aisha glares at him, her gaze cutting through the air as he caresses her hand. “Is this a threat? Are you threatening my family?”

He shakes his head slowly, his expression unreadable to those not attuned to the spiritual realm, dismissing her words as beneath him. I detect a brief tension in his demeanor: a subtle shift, almost imperceptible, as though something within him is being held in check.

A tense silence stretches between them.

“But…” Alexei pauses, his voice quieter now, steadier than she expects. “Do you even know what you want?”

“They’re waiting for me to come home,” she says, her voice steady, though the words falter in her heart. She’s trying to convince herself. A tear gathers, but she brushes it away, her voice softening. “My bauji loves me. I know my daddy loves me.”

Aisha longed for the comfort of home, for the love of her family. But deep down, she knew that even if she were free, it would never be the same.

Something shifts.

Fire stirs in her chest, hot and sharp, as her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow with a sudden, brutal clarity. The world, harsh and unyielding, presses in on her. Beneath the defiance, something trembles: an old wound, disbelief, the thin edge of breaking.

Aisha stares into Alexei’s eyes, like she’s looking down the barrel of a shotgun. “You know who my father is,” she says, her voice low, the words cutting through the silence between them.

“Your family forgot you,” he says without hesitation, each word sharp and deliberate, cutting through the air like a blade. “Arrested for theft, remember? If they truly cared, they would have come for you.”

Her expression remains unchanged, even as Alexei’s cold, brutal words confirm what she already knew.

He leans back, his gaze steady. “Stay, and the worst won’t touch you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says, her voice quiet, resolute, a defiance masking the doubt she can’t shake.

Her hand trembles as she wipes away the tear, but then anger surges through her, sudden and violent. With a swift motion, she slams her palm against the table, the crack of impact slicing through the silence.

Eyes from a nearby table shift in her direction. A single glance from Alexei is enough to make them look away, as though the tension has become unbearable.

In the drinking glass beside Aisha, a reflection: a flash of dragon-leather boots. A flicker of movement.

Lakita. Watching, always.

“You think this is love? You think I’m happy here, owned, controlled, confined?”

Her gaze lifts to the window, not seeing it, but sensing something beyond it. A weight. A presence.

Alexei sets his cup down with deliberate care. “Such drama,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing with practiced amusement, as though her emotions amuse him more than they threaten him. “You get like this when you’re bored.”

He studies her for a moment, his gaze calculating, as if measuring her every reaction. “Leave us and wait for me. I have a meeting, then the gym. Clear your head. Fuck it. Get a facial and a massage. I’ll meet you at the spa.”

Amid the clatter of cutlery, the soft murmur of porcelain, and the faint stirrings of small betrayals, something listens to the darkness of the man’s thoughts.

A whisper amongst unsavory, malignant creatures of the dark. Ancient. Ugly, profound laughter.

My mentee is not happy.

A thought begins to form at the edge of Alexei’s mind, familiar and unspoken. Entirely his own though conflated.

Lakita breathes life into it, shapes it, grounds it.

This moment belongs to her. A test. A turning point.

He blinks. Once. Again.

She belongs in the prison.

The spirits’ laughter grows louder, more hysterical.

Clarity settles in him like a breath finally exhaled.

Conviction hardens.

His fingers tap once against the porcelain, the sound sharp and deliberate.

His gaze never wavers from Aisha.

She will return.

She will break.

With a sharp movement, Aisha stood. She snatched a syrniki off the tray and marched toward the staircase without a word.

As she disappeared, a burly man named Medved entered, grinning as he approached the table. “Another happy customer,” he smirked.

Vladimir and Lisitsyn chuckled. Rising, they gave polite nods as Medved took the seat Aisha had just vacated.

A young waitress approached, bright-eyed, pretty, a red nametag pinned to her chest. She carried an envelope and a cigar. Alexei’s eyes dipped, slowly, before returning to her gaze.

“Bella, is it?”

Color rose in her cheeks under his attention, her mouth softening. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you for bringing this to me. I won’t need them now.”

He opened his wallet and slipped a folded bill into her blouse pocket, fingers grazing fabric with deliberate slowness.

“Thank you,” he added, voice low. His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary on the red button: seventeen, scrawled in Cyrillic like a designation, not a name.

The girl managed a bright smile, too quick, too practiced, and turned away. Anechka’s idea, no doubt: personal deliveries meant personal vulnerability. Better tips. Worse consequences.

Alexei turned to Dmitri. “Tell Bohdan: #17. My room this evening. And bring my cigar.”

“Yes, sir,” Dmitri replied, already on his way.

Alexei shifted his attention. “Medved! How’s the family?”

“They’re good, thank you. My nephew’s been asking about you. Just got married. He’s looking for work.”

Alexei nodded thoughtfully. “If he’s serious, I’ve got a factory opening in America. I’ll give you a contact. Remind me before you leave.”

Medved, Vladimir, and Lisitsyn shifted in their seats. The air thickened. No one spoke. Their eyes flicked between one another, waiting for Alexei to make his move.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. He scanned the room before pulling out a crumpled sheet, the scribbles on it half-faded, half-finished. With care, he unfolded it and traced the edge of the notes with a finger before glancing up, gaze sharp.

“Alright,” Alexei said, voice slicing through the stillness. “Let’s get to it.”

“First item of business. Lisitsyn says the Novyy Kazaks have been successful: stopping executions, smuggling prisoners out of the country.”

Vladimir sneered. “Add them to the list. Take care of them before they become a real problem.”

Lisitsyn’s jaw tightened. “We don’t touch Kazaks. That’s not our business, and you know it. It’s a death sentence. Hit them, and we’ll be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives.”

Medved leaned forward, sneering. “Kazak women? Bohdan wouldn’t turn them down.”

He glanced at Vladimir, who was stabbing a toothpick between his teeth. Then Medved grinned.

“Personally, I wouldn’t fuck a Kazak gal with Vladimir’s crooked dick.”

A few short laughs. One snort. Then silence. Long and awkward.

Alexei stirred his coffee, gaze resting on Vladimir.

“No Kazaks,” he said flatly.

He took a slow sip.

“We focus on the real threat. Lisitsyn, continue.”

Lisitsyn cleared his throat. “The rebels are nearing Rosocova. One of my contacts in Lviv said their house got raided last week.”

Medved frowned. “They’re close. Just hours away. And they’re good—trained by Russian special forces. I don’t think we’ll last a minute unless we put together a proper fighting unit.”

Alexei exhaled sharply. His voice cut through the room—not angry, just final. “Medved, we don’t have time. They’ll be on us by week’s end. We shut down preemptively—before they get too close.”

Medved blinked. “Shutdown? What do you mean, Alexei?”

Alexei leaned back, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the table. “I’m taking care of business before it takes care of us. Let’s not wait around to find out what happens.”

Lisitsyn shifted in his chair. “We’re secure. No one knows this place even exists… right?” His voice wavered.

I noted the waver. He already knew the answer. He had told someone. But his comrades did not seem to realize it and they usually detect deceit.

Alexei studied him. “Your funds are safe. And gold keeps climbing. There’s more in the accounts than we projected.”

Lisitsyn didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The room tilted, ever so slightly. Money has a way of making everything feel justified.

Vladimir leaned in. “How much have we made so far?”

“Fourteen million,” Alexei said. “A piece.”

Glasses clinked.

“We’re finished after this.”

Lisitsyn’s voice slid in, almost hopeful, almost ashamed. “Unless someone wants to keep going.”

Heads shook. A silent pact.

“Execution in three days,” Lisitsyn finished.

No one flinched.

“To us,” Vladimir said, lifting his glass with a gleam in his eye.

Their glasses clinked. A sound too clean for the business at hand. The room blurred, nothing existing beyond their shared triumph.

Alexei glanced toward Lisitsyn. “Did you prepare everything?”

Lisitsyn nodded. “Yes, warden. We’ve got the last five arriving. The prisoners will be ready by eight.”

No one reacted. They’d done this countless times. They’d all done worse. It was just another job.

But Medved broke the silence. “And the girl?”

Alexei nodded. “I’ll bring her at three.”

A beat. A flicker of something almost human. Then it was gone.

“Process her like the others. This is our last job. I’ll move them one by one to a new cell in two days, promising reprieve.”

Lakita watched. Waited.

This kind of promise, the illusion of reprieve, was always the sharpest knife.

She had seen it before. Hope turned to ash.

Aisha would learn this too.

Not yet. But soon.

Their laughter reached her, greasy shadows, thick with unseen rot. She inhaled the moment like smoke. It reeked of decay.

She hovered near Medved’s thoughts, where appetite and cruelty already curled together.

The image surfaced, dark and glib. Soup.

He barely paused before speaking.

“We could use soup.”

Laughter erupted.

Alexei grinned. “Sure, we can use soup. We did that a few months ago.”

He stood, slapping the table.

“Medved, Lisitsyn—handle the prisoners. Make it clean.”

He buttoned his coat.

“I’ll be in Rosocova with Anechka. Back in two days.”

Then, with a smirk to Vladimir:

“And you owe me varenyky.”

The meeting fractures. The men rise without ceremony.

They move toward a hidden room off to the side, a concealed exit that only opens from within.

Medved, Lisitsyn, and Vladimir shed their civilian disguises, retrieving ammunition and supplies. Coats fall away. Boots thud on stone. With practiced hands, they load weapons, strap on vests.

Names drop like dead weight. In their place: Bear. Fox. Wolf.

The enforcers of the underground prison.

Clad for the hunt, they step into the light: no names, no past.

Somewhere nearby, the ritual has already begun.

On Rosocova’s silent streets, five prisoners shuffle forward in clanking chains.

Their ankles are raw where iron has rubbed them bare. One limps. Another keeps glancing over his shoulder, eyes wide with dread.

Armed escorts flank them, rifles at ease, but ready.

They pass through a park once known for its beauty: stone paths now cracked, flowerbeds overgrown, a rusting swing creaking in the breeze.

Birds still sing. A cruelty.

Above them, the golden domes of St. Nicholas Cathedral blaze beneath the rising sun, the light unearned and merciless.

Around them, shaded trees offer no shelter. The bright flowers, no comfort.

Inside, the altar waits. It offers no salvation.

No one can take their place. The world has already chosen them.