Page 79 of Ruthless Serenade

But I don’t give a shit. I let my body slide down onto the ground, feeling the sharp pieces of glass pierce my skin, leaving small cuts on my palms. Blood drips down to the floor but it’s the least of my concerns. My thoughts are racing like bolts of jagged lightning, each more torturous than the last. Yet, even as I drink myself into a stupor, the vodka provides no relief. No matter how much alcohol I consume, the pain remains, lingering like a dark shadow.

Tramoxine.

That will do the trick. The pill I poured blood, sweat, and tears into, the one that helped so many fucked-up people. The one I never tried on myself. Maybe that’s what I need right now.

I push myself up and stumble forward, struggling to reach the cabinet where I keep my samples. My trembling hands fumble with the lock and my anticipation grows with each passing moment.

But then, I pause. A part of me that is still sober somehow manages to think logically. I am drunk as fuck. If I take Tramoxine under the influence of alcohol, it could be fatal.

It takes more than a fucking pill and some booze to kill you, Korolev.

Fuck it. Besides, maybe I like the idea of dying. It’s peaceful. No more racing heart, betrayal, crushing disappointment, seething jealousy, haunting guilt. Just sweet oblivion and freedom from this fucking shitshow we call life. A welcome release from the constant struggle of existence.

The room is still spinning as I lurch towards the cabinet once more. With a forceful yank, I pull at the doors. Locked.

"Fuck," I snarl.

I awkwardly rummage through the top drawer of my desk for the key, almost spilling the contents in my haste. After a short but frustrating struggle, I find it. I pick it up, insert it into the cabinet lock, and swing the door open, revealing the neatly labeled files behind it.

Jackpot.

The real treasure lies behind those files. Twenty boxes of Tramoxine. I kept them aside for experimental purposes, for friends and associates, but they were never used. Until now.

My hands, shaking from the booze and my growing anxiety, rummage to find the boxes behind the folders. But there’s nothing there.

Nothing.

"What the fuck?" I slur.

I sweep the folders aside, sending papers flying across the room. The shelves where my samples should be, stare emptily at me.

The samples are gone.

Vanished.

All of them.

Unless I’m too fucking drunk to think straight.

I find my way back to the minibar and open another bottle of Stoli. What’s one more drink going to do at this point? I’m too fucking pissed to care anyway. I take a long swig, wincing at the burn in my throat.

The room is spinning faster now. I try to stand straight, but my legs won’t cooperate. So, I slide back down to the floor, leaning against the cabinet I just rummaged. The bottle slips from my hand, clattering on the floor. I don’t bother picking it up.

My eyelids are heavy. I fight to keep them open, but it’s a lost battle before it even began. The last thing I think about before I pass out is the missing Tramoxine.

Where the fuck are those samples?

Then, oblivion takes over.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Maron

I don’t know how long I’ve been out.

As my eyes open, a headache hits me with a fucking vengeance. I look around me, straining to see the result of my own doing. Shattered glass, spilled liquid, and overturned furniture litter the room. It looks like a goddamn war zone, where I’m the sole survivor.

I groan, pushing myself up from the floor. My body aches with every movement. The stench of alcohol assaults my nostrils, making my stomach churn. I run a hand over my face, feeling the rough stubble on it.

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