Page 108 of Dangerous Beginnings

By 10:00 p.m., my patience runs out. I can’t wait any longer, not like this. I need to know where he is. I need to hear his voice, to feel reassured that he’s safe, that nothing has happened to him.

I text Dominik. He’s usually the one in the know, the one who keeps tabs on things when Aslanov is preoccupied.

Aslanov isn’t home yet. Do you know where he is? He said he’d be back by now, and I haven’t heard from him.

I send the message, tapping my fingers impatiently against the phone.

Seconds tick by. No reply.

Another minute. Still nothing.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the message notification from Dominik pops up.

He didn’t tell me he’d be out this late. I assumed he’d be back by now too.Let me check the security footage.

I stare at the message, my mind racing. He doesn’t know either?

I watch, my heart thudding in my chest as Dominik sends another message.

Okay, I’ve got something. He was last seen at 9:15 p.m. at Vysokaya Ulitsa, 21, Gelendzhik, Krasnodar Krai. I don’t know if he’s still there, but it’s the last known location.

I feel a chill run down my spine, a sudden sense of urgency crashing over me.

I can’t wait any longer. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.

I walk to the garage in the back of the cabin, the cold concrete floor beneath my feet, and open the door to the shed. The spare car—one Aslanov has kept for emergencies—is parked neatly inside. It’s the red sports car I had driven when I explored the city.

Why would he be there? I’m not sure what to think, but when the address comes through, I copy it into the car’s navigation.

The map shows an isolated location. No nearby towns, no signs of life. Only a long, desolate road leading toward the edge of a cliff, the water crashing violently beneath.

I pull the car out of the shed, the tires crunching against the gravel as I head toward the unknown.

The ride feels endless. The road stretches on, empty and eerie, as the night deepens around me. The darkness pressesin, making everything feel isolated, far from the warmth of the cabin. I grip the wheel tighter, each turn bringing me deeper into unfamiliar territory.

I drive through an old town, its streets deserted and quiet. The buildings are worn and weathered, their windows dark, and the shops that once thrived now stand closed and abandoned. The faded signs hanging from doors and shutters swing slightly in the breeze, creating an unsettling rhythm. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the hum of the car’s engine and the occasional rustling of leaves.

As I continue down the road, my stomach tightens, an unease settling in. Then, the navigation pings—Arriving at destination.

I drive just out of the town and my stomach tightens as I take in the surroundings: two old homes, abandoned and decaying, standing like silent sentinels watching the water below. The air feels thick with something I can’t quite place.

Then, I see it.

Aslanov’s car.

I freeze for a moment, the realization settling heavily in my chest. His car is parked just ahead, near the edge of the cliff.

I park the car just behind Aslanov’s, the engine humming softly as I turn it off. The air outside feels sharp, and icy against my skin as I open the door and step out. The cold bites at my exposed arms, sending a chill through me as I walk quickly toward his car.

My footsteps are muted on the gravel as I reach the side of his car. I peer inside, my breath catching. It’s empty.

A knot tightens in my stomach, panic slowly creeping in. Where is he?

I turn my head, scanning the area, and then I see him.

Standing at the edge of the cliff, his back to me, his hands tucked into his pockets, his hood pulled low over his face. The cold wind sweeps through the scene, tousling his dark hair, but itdoesn’t seem to bother him. He stands there motionless, staring at the wild sea crashing against the rocks below.

I hesitate for a moment, but I know it’s him. The posture, the car—it’s all him.

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