Somewhere in the Shadows, 2075
The awakening hit like a freight train that warehouse dawn, when the first bullets bit and the wolf in me cracked its cage. Nine years old, but already tasting the red tang of command under my tongue. Father's shadow loomed long back then—his fists the forge that bent me toward this path, Mom's pyre the spark that lit the fire. I was a cocky kid with a stolen gun, thinking power meant outrunning cops and ghosts. Wrong. Survival's the grind that wakes the beast—cold, clawing, turning flinches into fangs. Yuri watched from the sidelines that day, ledger tucked like a loaded promise, testing if the pup would lead or limp. I led. It tasted like copper and chaos, like the first welt from his belt, but now mine to swing. That fight was the first crack in the ordinary world, the chain that yanked me from street rat to shadow king. The rush hits sweet, pup, like a secret win—until it scars you for life. Be honorable in the rush; it's the fang that keeps you sharp.
St. Petersburg Shipyards, Summer 1989
The Baltic wind sliced off the Gulf like a dock knife, carrying salt-rot and diesel stink through the rusted cranes. Pier 7's splintered boards whipped like they held a grudge, groaning under my boots as I paced. Nine and wiry-tough from hauling scrap, I'd built myself lean dodging Dad's rages. The scar over my eye itched like a bad omen, a fresh map from Sasha's blade. My "crew"—four older shadows with crude wolf and cross tattoos—huddled around a crate of scavenged pistols, metal dull under the midnight sun's stubborn glow. We'd been running small-time: bootleg smokes to Helsinki kids, kvass laced with whatever pinched pennies could buy. Good enough to keep hunger at bay, quiet the ghosts—until whispers crawled through the fog about Petrov's gang. Fat on government scraps, they sniffed our turf like dogs on a bone.
"Tip's good," I growled, voice small but sharp as the shank in my pocket, scar twitching like Dad's ghost warning me. "They raid the shed at first light. Five guys, maybe six. Petrov's mutts from the east." I cracked my knuckles, tattoos smudged from alley ink—marks I'd begged for to prove I was more than the kid who flinched. "Fight or run. You pick." Misha, the bear-big enforcer with a notched ear from '79 food scraps, hawked into the waves. "Fight, kid-boss. No run." Grunts rippled, nods followed, hands settling on grips. No real votes in our little Bratva scrape—living was the only vote that counted. I saw it in their eyes: that same empty fire I'd felt at eight, palming that drunk's wallet. We weren't brothers, not like the busted family I'd scraped from, but we stuck closer than spit.
Lesson of the Refusal: Big wants murmur, scare yells back off. But Viktor Frankl, forged in camp blaze, knew the last free pick is how you face hurt. My laugh hid the shake—the lost kid's fear of being gone again, the hit boy's duck at any lifted hand. In hard spots, when the seat shines but the hat weighs like ropes—or Dad's strap—stop. Say no, not just smart, but to weigh the empty. Ask: Is this pull a box or an opener? A guy running his dark runs forever; one who spins it eats it. Be honorable in the no—it's the code that turns refusal to fuel.
Light cracked red as the shed—stacked with junk and dark corners—erupted in gun flashes. Petrov's rats swarmed like sewer trash, pistols yapping loud. My guys plugged the doors, shots gnawing at crates and flesh. I darted low, back to the wall, popping rounds from the pilfered Makarov. Dropped one before their fire zipped the air—a slug nicked my arm, burning like Dad's strap fresh-laid. I pushed, hopping a box, ramming my shank into a thug's neck. He bubbled, eyes wide as bread rolls, an echo of the sots I'd lifted from, faces blank in loss. He dropped, and it hit—that buzz of control over the mess, no Dad's sneer tainting it.
Wisdom of the Ashes: Gone is a big cleaner, peeling fakes like fire peels skin. Marcus Aurelius, king in a falling land, said in his musings: Pick over head, not just stuff. Mom's fire wasn't loss—it was the start, burning the kid-duck from Dad's mad. When the world burns paths, don't mourn the bridge—walk the coals. Life asks you to pick: hurt or builder. The charmer's grin? Just cover for alone, woven from duck hits. Make something from the black. Be honorable in the black—it's the spark that builds empires from embers.
Echoes faded. Five Petrov stiffs chilled on the concrete, my crew minus one—Lena's little brother, a squirt with guitar scribbles in his notebook, dreaming tunes over triggers. I crouched by the boss-thug, rat-face Kolya, digging his pockets for the cheap radio. "Word sent," I muttered, smearing blood from my face. The win soured fast—cops would sniff the smoke soon, our kid-bribes stretching thin. Dad's voice banged my head: Useless runt. I'd show him, one stiff at a time. In the shed's gloomy nook, cleanup distant, I slumped on a box, yanking off my ripped shirt to wrap the scratch.
Then she ghosted in. Katya, the pier girl with black hair that rolled like river waves, my "good-luck shadow" for weeks. A bar kid from the Sirena spot, swapping tips for secret hangs—no ties, no marks like Mom's. Just warmth to push back his cold. "Dima," she breathed, eyes scanning my cuts like notes in a song, pausing on the new one. "You look wrecked. Let me patch." Her fingers skimmed the hurt, cool on fire, then trailed down with hints wrapped in soft cloth and haze. I grinned crooked, tugging her near, buzz-crash sparking wild need. "Wreck's my game, zolotaya." Our kiss tasted salt and rush, bodies bumping boxes in a scramble, blocking the howling outside. Quick. Rough. No promises—how I dug it. Girls were escapes, flashes to dodge Dad's dark. Sticking was for saps and smashed homes. As she faded with a wink and a quiet tip on Petrov's next play, I sparked a smoke, puffing dragon-breath. For now, the shades hushed.
The call came at twilight. A black Mercedes rolled to the pier like a hungry fish, Uncle Yuri stepping out—gray-fox of the old thief code, fingers twisted like tree roots, two hard-face helpers at his sides. "Nephew," he boomed, slapping my good arm, easy on the wrap showing at my neck. He knew Alexei's tales—poet to monster—and had snuck Mom extra bread after the camp took him. "Guts like pine knots. But guts don't stack kingdoms." They rolled quiet to the cabin on the town's rim, a wood fort circled by trees and spike-wire, where boss pacts sealed in home-brew and hush.
Inside, by a fire popping turf, Yuri poured from a glass bottle, booze clear as lies. A girl lounged in the corner—Lena from Yuri's "guests"—all soft lines and sly looks. I waved her off with a kid-grin. "Not now, krasavitsa. Work first." She pouted, but I'd known her kind from peeks—the hunt was buzz enough, a drop clean from care's ropes. Yuri chuckled deep, pouring more. "Still wolfing the sheep, eh? Like your dad chased devils. But you chase hems, not flasks." He leaned in, voice low. "Old rules are rotting, Grim. Groups breaking like the big land did. Petrov's not the only worm—cops circle, West folks nip edges. The thieves need a flag. One punch, not bunches." His eyes, keen as knives, nailed me. "You tie us. Moscow to Riga. Grow the hauls. Girls if needed, but neat. Power. Honor. A kin that don't ghost like your old. Or bash you first."
I gawked the blaze, scar tugging, Dad's rumble in the snap: Useless. Then the book popped like magic—hide-bound, coded in crook scribble, leaves thick with Petrov's dirt: bribes to bigwigs, hauls of camp ghosts from Chernobyl's shade. "Teacher's present," Yuri said. "Use it to cut your seat. Say no, and you're chow for the next mutt pack. Just like him. Raging shades till they locked him." A laugh barked from me, rough as ripped hide. "Seat? Uncle, I'm no king. I'm the rat that snaps—keeps low, pockets full, bed cozy." I gulped the glass, sting chasing shades—Dad's empty spot, Mom's yarns of smart fools beating kings, the lumps teaching trust was a trick. Getaway flashed: a hut in the cold hills, hooking iced ponds, far from thief rules' chill hug and his fist echo. Katya's smell hung on me, quick hold to the life I wanted—loose, fast, untied. "Hunt another wolf." Yuri's grin missed his eyes. "Rules pick, kid. Not you." He stood, leaving the book like a dare. I snagged it anyway—backup, not big plans—and slid to night, Mercedes tails dimming like fake hopes.
The fire-bomb hit at 3 a.m., orange whoosh eating the building's third level where Mom sewed by wick, humming Katyusha to fight the dark. I bolted from hide two blocks off—Katya's spot—where she'd fixed more than scrapes, lungs burning as I shoved through the crowd. Fire ate the sky, gulping her room, fire guys hosing lazy. She was gone, they said after—a burned shell in cloth, no word, no heads-up. Petrov's mark, drawn in fuel. But in the boom, I heard him—Dad's chuckle, mocking the weak that let her go. I stood in ash-dust morn, book heavy in my coat, mad a fire in my gut hotter than his hits. Yuri's words rang: Rules pick. No cracked like Neva frost, bits of dream blowing off—no hill hut, no soft end, no more snuck hangs with girls like Katya hunting warm in empty. The wolf moved, yellow-eye hungry. Kid-time done, jerk's gift to gas. I turned from the wreck, boots grinding ash. The pier called, my group with it, and past Europe's dark lines beat with shot and risk. The pull, no'd, now boomed. I'd answer—not kid, but the guy deep asking. Dad's hits last melted to my hard rule. Be honorable in the melt—it's the code that crowns the wolf.