Page 42 of Inevitable Endings
At the far end of the hallway, above a heavy door, a faded sign: EXIT.
But it’s reinforced. Stronger than the rest. Probably alarmed.
I shift my attention to the guards escorting me. The broad one walks slightly ahead, the leaner one behind. Standard formation. Their boots echo against the concrete, their posture rigid but comfortable—routine. They’ve done this before.
Weapons? None visible. But their belts carry keys, a radio, maybe a knife.
One chance. That’s all I’ll get.
I keep walking, head down, expression blank.
But I see everything.
And when the moment comes, I will be ready.
We come to a stop.
The door before me is open, waiting.
Inside, a single chair sits in the center of the room. I’ve been here before, countless times now, and whenever I go here it isn’t for a happy jolly cup of tea with Nick. It doesn’t take me long to register the man standing next to the chair bolted into the floor.
He stands with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, composed. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal a single tattoo on his forearms; calculated intimidation.
I watch him, just as he watches me.
Nick isn’t just a dirty fed playing criminal. He’s something else. Something deeper.
His torment isn’t random. It’s precise. The way he speaks, the way he controls a room, the way he strips a man down piece by piece, this isn’t just experience. This is expertise.
He’s not a thug. Not some low-level enforcer throwing punches to get what he wants.
He understands pain. He knows how to wield it.
That means he’s been in places like this before. Maybe on the other side of the chair. Maybe somewhere worse.
I don’t know where he learned this, but it wasn’t in some government training program. It wasn’t from sitting behind a desk, pushing papers.
His eyes flick over me, assessing. Searching for signs of weakness.
Then, he nods toward the chair.
“Sit.”
I don’t move.
The first blow is swift, precise, a fist to my gut. Enough to hurt, not to break. The air rushes from my lungs, my ribs igniting withfresh pain, but I stay upright. I will not give him the satisfaction of crumbling.
The guards shove me forward, forcing me down into the chair. The cold metal presses into my spine, the restraints locking around my wrists before I can adjust. Trapped. Helpless.
Nick exhales through his nose, stepping closer.
“You know why you’re here.”
I meet his gaze, silent.
He crouches in front of me, elbows resting on his knees, tilting his head slightly as if studying a puzzle; one he intends to dismantle piece by piece.
“You and I both know how this ends, Aslanov.” His tone is even, almost patient. “You can make it easier. Or you can make it much, much worse.”
