That day, Galina never tasted the sweet fruit of revenge—her life had been the price. I didn't know the details, and Father seemed glad to keep them from me, as if the memory of her last moments were too bitter to share. After he appeared in the clearing, she had lost consciousness before seeing what truly happened. Nik had managed to escape—or so Doctor Smirnov, Kostya, and Stas reassured me, each in turn.
The strangest thing was the pang of regret I felt reading about Galina, tinged with a faint sorrow for the path her life had taken and what she had become. No one could have helped a lonely, mad woman like her. And yet, I bore a part of the responsibility for her death: had I not been in the clearing, Father would not have rushed to save me from Nik, and Galina would never have had the chance to save her son from the werewolf. Fate had thrust two natural enemies together, and only one emerged victorious. I often wondered if she could have been helped, could have changed—but I knew the truth: the way back had vanished with the remnants of the vampire's soul long before our paths crossed.
Things were different with Nik. I hated Nikita for the farce that had upended my life, turning it inside out. For the lies, the coercion, for forcing me to confuse false impulses with genuine desire. His mother hadn't manipulated me; he had chosen this. He could have refused, could have stayed out of the dark play of revenge—but Karimov had made his choice. Only now do I know how to distinguish a foreign illusion from my inner voice, yet the memories remain, stubbornly vivid. The once-colorful snapshots of my past had turned to gray ashes.
Werewolf blood coursed through me from birth, rejecting the vampire poison as a toxin, expelling it with every ounce of my body's strength. That alone had spared me a life of weakness, an endless thirst, a wandering hollow existence. I saw the struggle in Nik every day, the madness in Galina, the slow consumption of her soul by her own obsession. There was no love in any of it—only a farce, an insatiable hunger for revenge.
It was strange, how easily one person could twist another's actions to shift blame. In those first days in the hospital, I watched not only Doctor Smirnov but also Father with suspicion. Galina's story had seeded that wariness. The idea of standing on the side of the wrong—of being bound by blood to a role I never chose—was unbearable. Kostya was my father. That fact could never change; only my perception of him could.
Father could not avoid a frank conversation about the past. He spoke openly, unwilling to claim responsibility for the doctor's choices, yet candid about his own motives, answering my questions patiently. From him, I learned that Galina's story could be seen from many angles, each reflecting only part of the truth. Yet even as I pieced together the fragments, the full picture never formed. Something was always missing, leaving my guilt to bloom endlessly within me.
If Galina's tale smelled of decay and the stubborn loneliness of a life gone wrong, Kostya's vision gleamed with hope, a faith in brighter days. I remember the third day, when Father arrived at the ward carrying a heavy plastic bag of Asian food. There were wok noodles with shrimp and vegetables in oyster sauce, delicate steamed bao buns, even a small pack of sushi rolls. We ate off the hospital blanket, a small, ordinary comfort. I caught Kostya off guard with a question about Galina, just as he finally managed to lift the noodles with his chopsticks.
"Asya, she was bad. Very bad," he said thoughtfully, picking at the noodles, avoiding my eyes. "The doctor… he's a strange man. He thinks he acts for the best, though he can't foresee every outcome. The birth was difficult. Galina was dying."
He paused occasionally, either searching for the right words or giving me space to speak. But my mind was empty, my stomach just as hollow despite the almost-empty pack of sushi.
"You don't know Vladimir well," Kostya continued. "Children… they're a sore spot for him. Look at how many he's protected, under his wing, none of them even remotely related by blood. He understood what they'd face, thought he could help. And from the outside, it seems the kids turned out… alright. They live their lives, more or less like normal people, fitting into society somehow. Stas even has a girlfriend among humans. Though maybe I'm wrong."
"You're not," I said.
"He's dating Rostova."
Kostya took another thoughtful bite of noodles. After swallowing, he squinted at me. "Wait—that name. One of your friends? Blonde or brunette?"
"With a nasty temper," I said coldly.