Page 30 of Sinful Games

Stage four throat cancer usually doesn't allow for much time, but somehow the bastard’s still hanging on, six years later.

Now, he's voiceless, reliant on a breathing machine, and rarely coherent.

Yet, in those fleeting moments of awareness, nurses say he repeatedly calls outmy name.

But truth be told, I harbor no feelings for him, just a detached acknowledgment of his useless presence, a haunting reminder of my fucked-up past.

Only Volk and Igor know about him being my old man.

When I joined the Silas, I swapped Alexsei Rovanski for Alexsei Romaniev, trying to ditch my past.

I wanted absolutelynothingto do with that fucking bastard anymore.

But damn it, there's this twisted part of me that couldn't resist stopping by when I was back in town, just to check on him, see if he was still defying death like a stubborn son of a bitch.

Guess even death itself can't be bothered with that old bastard.

I scrutinized him with disgust—the sickly green shade of his skin, the baldness that highlighted his frailty, the faint remnants of eyebrows above lifeless eyes, and those dark, pulsating veins etched like scars across his neck.

His rasping breaths, amplified by the machine, echoed in the room.

He'd visibly lost weight since my last visit, looking frail, as delicate as a leaf. He seemed so fragile that I was almost certain he'd break like glass if I touched him.

I rose and ambled toward the window, fixating on the snowflakes descending from the sky to the ground below.

The darkness enveloped everything, and the snow was merely illuminated by the stark streetlights.

This view felt more like a nightmare than a dream, matching the chaos I was feeling inside.

Back when I was a kid, the snow was pure excitement, especially when it meant playing with my school buddies.

We'd create this whole war scene, imagining ourselves assoldiers in the Red Army fighting off the Nazis. Our snowballs became missiles and bombs in our make-believe battles.

And naturally, I was always the "Commander," orchestrating our play and watching as my "troops" triumphed over the enemy.

But there was this one day where I was about ten, having a blast playing outside with my neighbors. I played with them for hours and time slipped away, when suddenly, I caught sight of my father heading our way from a distance.

His face contorted in anger, his nose flushed red, and he was stumbling towards us, unmistakably drunk.

Without a second thought, I urgently told my friends to hide, not wanting them to bear the result of his anger.

When he finally got close, he struck me so hard that I tumbled to the ground, the snow cushioning the impact.

"I've been waiting for you for hours, you piece of shit!" He shouted.

I slowly rose, my hand on my stinging cheek. "I'm sorry, Papa. I was playing with-"

"You think you can play around in the snow all fucking day?" He growled, scooping up some snow. "There, you little bastard." He grabbed my throat and shoved the snow into my face. He kept reaching for more, holding me in place, and forcefully shoved it into my face and mouth.

I scrambled, desperate to break free from his grip. The bitter cold seeped through my clothes, freezing my skin.

With a surge of adrenaline, I managed to wrench myself away, stumbling backward and coughing violently as I tried to expel the snow from my mouth and throat. I scanned the surroundings for any sign of help, but the snow-covered streets seemed deserted.

My heart pounded, my breaths ragged as I glared at him, trying to gauge his next move.

He advanced, a sinister grin carving its way across his face. "You think you're strong, huh?"

I had to think fast.

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