Page 202 of Inevitable Endings
He kneels to the side, quiet, hands behind his back, blood on his face but alive. Loyal. The only one who didn’t turn. His eyes stay down, unmoving.
And Aslanov doesn’t touch him.
Because loyalty is remembered in this room.
Everything else?
Is erased.
Another tooth.
Another scream.
Blood sprays. The air is thick with the scent of iron and death and smoke.
Someone else, farther back, one of the remaining Vor, breaks.
He drops to his knees, hands up, sobbing.
“Please—please, I didn’t know. I didn’t agree to anything, I swear to you—Ivanov, please—”
Aslanov turns slowly.
And he smiles.
But it’s not kind.
It’s not even cruel.
It’s empty.
He walks toward the begging man, gun raised.
The man throws himself forward, grabs Aslanov’s boot like it might save him.
“Mercy! Mercy—”
“There’s no brotherhood,” Aslanov continues.
He puts the gun against the man’s temple.
“I fucking hate rats.”
He pulls the trigger.
The sound is deafening.
The man falls sideways, body twitching, blood pooling like confession.
And Aslanov doesn’t flinch.
He just turns back to Lazovsky, crouching again, pliers raised.
His voice drops lower, into Russian now. I only catch the shape of it, the venom behind the syllables.
“Krysy ne umirayut b?stro. Oni gniyut.”
Rats don’t die quickly. They rot.
