RUSLAN TUSHENTSOV|| CRAZY MEGA HELL|| CMH

Continued in the protocol

The rain pounded the eaves, counting down the minutes. She sat in a chair, her legs tucked under her, reading a tattered book. The light from the floor lamp cast a yellow circle, leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow. She didn't flinch at the sound of the elevator in the entryway and didn't check her watch.

The heartbeat was even

Ruslan had accustomed her to silence. That special, viscous silence that comes after a gunshot, when the ringing in your ears gives way to a cottony emptiness. Before, the first few times, she'd been shaking. Adrenaline twisted her joints, and a lump of nausea rose in her throat. Then he'd take her by the shoulders, squeeze her until she bruised, and say the same thing over and over: "Breathe. You're safe with me." And she believed him, because he really was shielding her with himself, taking her away, hiding her.

He always dragged her down to the bottom—to his bottom, which he considered safety. There, in the twilight of his world, there was no room for jealousy or the fear of being late. The pistol in the holster on his belt became as familiar a thing as a wallet or car keys. She didn't remember how they met. Memory helpfully erased that moment, leaving only the feeling: Ruslan was the first and only one who decided everything instantly. Any chase, any misstep in "eliminating an unwanted person" turned into a wild cocktail of adrenaline and laughter with him. He held her hand, and she ran after him without stumbling.

She didn't worry when he was late. You don't get jealous of the dead, and Ruslan worked with the dead. If anyone could get in his way, he was just another line on his list. Sometimes he'd take her along for backup. She knew her place behind him, knew how to cover a sector, and how to quietly disappear into an alley if things got out of hand.

He returned late today. The lock didn't even click—in the darkness of the hallway, only the faint creaking of a floorboard was heard, and that was all. Not a sigh, not a rustle of clothing. Only the air grew heavier, denser, as if the room itself were holding its breath.

She didn't turn around. She turned the page.

Ruslan's hand suddenly rested on the back of the chair, right next to her shoulder, blocking the light from the floor lamp. He leaned closer, so low that his breathing, even and quiet, was audible. His fingers ran through her hair: not a caress, more like a familiar ritual, like checking a weapon after a fight. The holster on his belt was empty.

“You’re late, ” she said, without taking her eyes off the book.

He didn't answer right away. He walked over to the table, pulled a pistol from his belt, and placed it on the countertop, barrel facing the wall, as always. The dull thud of metal on wood was a dull, hollow sound, and only then did he speak. His voice was lower than usual, with that tired rasp that no sip of water could hide.

"I was by the river, " he said, leaning his palms on the edge of the table and looking out the dark window . "You know, bullets are a shitty method. Noisy, dirty. But water... water is more honest. It accepts everyone, doesn't ask questions."

THC: STOPPED CRAP LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval