Damian's eyes were wet now with fury.
He stared at Leonid, the memory of that night burning in his chest like acid.
"You took him from me," Damian said, his voice low, trembling with rage.
"And you think you'll walk out of here alive?"
Leonid smirked weakly, his pistol still shaking in his hand.
"You won't kill me. You're too much like him."
Damian stepped closer, his boots heavy on the floor.
He looked at his uncle—at the man who destroyed his childhood, his peace, his family—and his voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
"No," Damian said. "I'm nothing like him. He had mercy."
He grabbed Leonid's wrist, twisted it hard—the pistol fell and clattered across the floor.
Leonid groaned in pain.
Rain came down hard. Water hit the rooftop in heavy drops.
Leonid spat, rain mixing with the blood at his mouth.
"I always hated him," he said, voice rough. "I hated your father. I hated that he had everything.
