Page 103 of Inevitable Endings
But he shakes his head weakly, his hand gripping my arm to steady himself. His eyes, once full of ambition, now carry something far heavier—resignation. A quiet acceptance.
“Leave me,” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the distant fighting. “You’ll slow down. You’re not going to make it if you drag me along.”
My grip tightens around him, my teeth grinding against the words I can’t find. I can’t just leave him. No matter how much my survival instinct screams, I can’t. He’s the last person I ever thought I’d fight beside, but here we are; two broken men, bound by nothing but circumstance, fighting to stay alive in a world that has left us both behind.
“Don’t talk like that,” I growl, desperation creeping into my voice. “I’m not leaving you. You’re not dying here like their pet.”
I drag him further down the endless hallway.
But Petrov’s lips curl into a faint, almost bitter smile, and he gives a slow shake of his head. There’s a weight in his gaze, a finality to it, that I can’t ignore.
“Do it,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Do the honors. Finish me off, Aslanov. Kill me before they do.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. My stomach tightens, my grip on him faltering for a moment as I meet hisgaze. I feel the anger bubbling inside me again, the betrayal from all those years, the years of bloodshed between us. But it’s not anger anymore. It’s something colder, something deeper. Understanding.
“Why?” I rasp, unable to suppress the confusion twisting in my chest.
Petrov’s eyes flicker, as if the weight of the question is too much for him to bear. “Because you’re the only one who can,” he mutters, then pauses to take a jagged breath, his body trembling with the effort. “They’ll take me back. They’ll make me suffer. You know how it works.” His voice drops lower. “You know what they’ll do to me, Aslanov. I won’t make it out of this room alive. Not the way they’ll want it.”
I swallow hard, the cold edge of his words sinking in deeper than any physical wound could.
We round the corner, and I spot it; a narrow hallway leading to a small, secluded part of the bunker. It’s a little farther than I’d like, but it’s our only chance. I observed it at the beginning of my stay here. I move toward it, feeling the familiar sting of panic as my instincts scream that we’re running out of time.
We make it to the door, and I push it open with a grunt, dragging him inside. I slam the door shut behind us, the heavy, metallic sound echoing through the narrow space. My hands are slick with blood, my breath coming in harsh, desperate gasps as I brace myself against the door, trying to steady myself.
“Don’t let them have the satisfaction.”
His words hang in the air, and for a moment, the chaos outside fades completely. It’s just me and him. The man I’ve hated. The man I’ve fought beside. The man who has somehow become something more than an enemy in these final moments.
I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be the one to end him. But I can see the truth in his eyes. I can see the reality of the pain, the suffering he’s endured, the brutal truth that he won’t survivewhatever comes next. Not like this. Not in their hands.
And, perhaps, there’s something deeper here, a twisted understanding of each other’s pain, of all the things we’ve both done to survive.
I nod, a tight, painful motion. “You’re a damn fool, Petrov,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “But you’ve always been a fool.”
His smile widens, grim, but there’s a flicker of something else in it, perhaps even respect. I don’t know. I’m too lost in the moment to care.
“Get into this ventilation duct,” Petrov says, he nods at the duct in the corner of the space, as though the urgency has drained away, leaving only the remnants of a final request. “You’ll have to move fast, but it’s your best shot.” He takes a breath, his eyes locking onto mine with intensity, as though he’s trying to convey something more, something beyond the words. “It ends in the east wing. Near the service rooms. There, you’ll find another duct that runs under the floor. Get in there and don’t stop until you’re out.”
I nod, the words sinking in despite the roiling emotions in my gut. The ventilation ducts. The way out. It’s the only chance I have, the only way to escape this bunker, this nightmare. And he’s giving it to me—one last piece of information. One last act of defiance against the system that’s broken both of us.
But I know. I know that he’s asking me to end his suffering. To spare him from what comes next.
I get closer to him, my hand trembling as it reaches for his neck. For a brief moment, our eyes lock again—this silent understanding between us, an unspoken bond formed from years of bloodshed, betrayal, and survival. The man who was my enemy, who I would have killed without a second thought if the circumstances had been different, is now a man I have to put down.
His breath catches as I tighten my grip around his throat. He doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t resist. He’s already gone, in a way. This is just the last part of it.
I pull him closer, the blood on my hands now staining my palms. My fingers find their place at his neck, and I can feel the pulse of life still there, faint but present. But I know; he’s done. He’s ready.
“Goodbye, Petrov,” I murmur, my voice breaking the silence of the moment. It feels like a lie, an empty phrase. Goodbye, as though we’ve shared something more than just this brutal, final moment.
With one last twist, I grip his neck harder, my fingers digging deep, the pressure building until I feel the bones give way beneath my hand. His body convulses once, then twice. His breath comes in a strangled gasp before it cuts off completely, and his body goes still in my grasp.
His body falls slack in my hands, and I let go of him, watching as he crumples to the floor. The noise of the outside world rushes back in, a distant, muffled chaos, but inside, all I hear is the quiet, heavy silence of what I’ve just done.
I stand over him for a moment, unsure of what to feel. Anger? Regret? Relief? There’s nothing but an aching emptiness gnawing at the pit of my stomach. Petrov’s death—his defiance, his request—is branded into my mind, and it will haunt me. But there’s no time to dwell on it now.
The Devil in me crawls back from the lowest pit in Hell, dragging itself through the charred remnants of my soul.
