The engine's low, insistent rumble filled the confines of the car as Akira and I sped through the winding, narrow roads of Zemen, the morning sun climbing steadily higher in a clear blue sky, casting elongated shadows across the dashboard and flickering through the canopy of trees lining the path. My hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, the worn leather creaking under my fingers, every muscle in my body taut with a volatile mix of rage and terror. The stolen Spanish car's tires devoured the pavement hungrily, kicking up occasional gravel as we veered around bends, the vehicle handling the urgency like it sensed the life-or-death stakes. Akira sat in the shotgun seat, her golden eyes fixed intently on the passing landscape—rolling green hills dotted with vibrant wildflowers in shades of yellow and purple, the Struma River glinting intermittently to our left like a serpentine vein of liquid silver cutting through the valley. But her tail lashed restlessly against the seat, betraying the storm brewing beneath her composed exterior, her claws tapping an erratic rhythm on her knee as if counting down to an explosion.
The air inside the car was thick with unspoken fear and determination, the scent of last night's rain still clinging to the upholstery, mixing with the faint, musky hybrid aroma that Akira carried—a reminder of the family tie that had pulled her into this nightmare. Silence stretched between us at first, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of a passing vehicle, but Akira finally shattered it, her voice sharp and edged with barely contained fury. "Who the fuck is this guy?" she demanded, turning to me with her ears perked forward aggressively, her golden eyes narrowing like a predator sizing up prey. "The one who took Miko—Dimitar? How does he even know about you two? Spill it—every detail. We're in this together now."
I glanced at her briefly, keeping my focus on the road as we curved around another bend, the car hugging the asphalt with a slight sway. My jaw clenched, the memories surfacing like bile. "Trent's brother," I explained, the name tasting bitter on my tongue, laced with old venom. "Trent was this sleazeball back in the US—tried to mess with Miko, corner her, force things. It escalated into a fight; he didn't make it out. Self-defense, but messy. Dimitar must've pieced it together somehow—maybe from news scraps about hybrid incidents, or underground networks tracking survivors like us. Hell, maybe Trent bragged about his plans before it all went down. Doesn't matter how—he's got her now, and he's threatening... everything. Rape, kill—slow. We get to Bucharest, we end this bastard."
Akira's tail thrashed harder, her claws digging into the armrest with a scratch that left faint marks. "Family doesn't touch family," she growled, her voice low and feral. "We'll get her back. And he'll pay."
Viktor's house loomed ahead after a tense half-hour drive—a modest, weathered cottage nestled on the town's rural outskirts, tucked behind a rickety wooden fence overgrown with twisting ivy vines and blooming wild roses, their petals scattering in the breeze. The yard was scattered with old car parts—rusty fenders, engine blocks half-disassembled—remnants of Viktor's side gig as a mechanic, the metallic tang mixing with the earthy scent of damp soil. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney, carrying the woody aroma of a morning fire, and a few chickens pecked at the ground near the porch, clucking softly. I pulled up the car with a crunch of gravel under the tires, killing the engine as the dust settled around us.
Akira stayed in the car, her eyes scanning the surroundings warily, while I hopped out, the door slamming behind me with a metallic thud. The path to the front door was uneven stone, weeds pushing through the cracks, and I knocked hard on the weathered oak panel, the sound echoing like a urgent demand across the quiet yard.
Viktor answered after a moment, his burly frame filling the doorway like a sentinel, wiping grease from his thick, calloused hands with a stained rag, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a surprised expression that quickly shifted to concern. He was dressed in oil-streaked overalls, the scent of motor oil clinging to him like a second skin. "Kid? This early for a visit? And who's the catgirl in the car?" His eyes flicked past me to Akira, noting her hybrid features with a neutral nod—no judgment in his gaze, just the pragmatic assessment of a man who'd seen his share of the world's edges.
I didn't waste time on pleasantries, my voice low and urgent, the words tumbling out like a dam breaking. "Miko's been kidnapped," I said bluntly, the phrase hanging heavy in the air. "Some bastard from our past—threatening to hurt her bad if I don't show. I need a gun. Something reliable, untraceable. Please, Viktor—you know people."
Viktor's face hardened instantly, his bushy eyebrows knitting together, eyes narrowing as he processed the gravity. He knew Miko from my stories at the bar—knew she was my world, the light in the chaos we'd fled. "Shit," he muttered, stepping aside to let me in. "If you're asking for a gun, it's dire. Come on." We moved into the cozy living room—wooden beams overhead, a crackling fireplace warming the space with pops and hisses, faded photos of his family on the mantel showing happier times. He led me to a back room, unlocking a heavy cabinet with a key fished from his pocket, the metal scraping as it swung open. But instead of handing over a weapon, he shook his head gravely. "Can't give you mine—too traceable, and I need it for my own protection these days with the war whispers. But I know a guy. Sells illegal—clean pieces, no serials scraped off. 500 euros for a basic handgun. He'll hook you up fast. Address here." He scribbled on a scrap of paper torn from a notebook, the pencil scratching hastily, handing it over with a firm grip on my shoulder. "Be careful, kid. Bring her back safe—and don't get yourself killed."
"Thanks, Viktor," I said, clapping his shoulder in return, gratitude swelling in my chest. "Owe you big."
"Bring her back—that's payment enough," he replied gruffly, his eyes steady. "And watch your back out there. Romania's a powder keg right now."
We rushed back to the car, the door slamming as I peeled out, gravel spraying behind us like a farewell salute. The address led to a rundown warehouse on the industrial side of town—graffiti-covered walls splashed with colorful tags and faded murals, chain-link fences rattling in the light breeze, broken glass crunching underfoot as I approached. The area was desolate: empty lots overgrown with weeds, a few stray dogs sniffing around abandoned crates, the air heavy with the scent of rust and oil. "Stay in the car," I told Akira as I parked in the shadows, scanning for any signs of trouble—shuttered windows, a flickering streetlight even in daylight. She nodded, her claws extended slightly, ready to pounce if needed, her eyes sharp and alert.
I approached the door—a rusted metal slab dented from years of abuse—and knocked sharply, the sound hollow and echoing like a challenge. It creaked open after a tense wait, revealing a sketchy guy: heavily tattooed arms sleeved in faded ink of skulls and thorns, a shaved head gleaming under the dim bulb inside, eyes suspicious and narrowed under heavy brows, a cigarette dangling precariously from his lips, smoke curling lazily upward. "What?" he grunted, exhaling a puff that wafted into my face, the acrid smell stinging my nose.
"Need two guns and ammo," I said, keeping my voice steady and low, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Heard you could help. Viktor sent me."
He eyed me up and down slowly, sizing me up like a potential threat or mark, then stepped aside with a jerk of his head. "Come in." The inside was dim and cluttered—crates stacked haphazardly against concrete walls stained with leaks, the air thick with the metallic tang of gun oil and faint gunpowder residue, tools scattered on a workbench under a harsh fluorescent light that buzzed overhead. He pulled two sleek Glocks from a locked case bolted to the wall—black, compact, deadly, their matte finish absorbing the light—and boxes of 10mm rounds, the brass casings clinking as he set them down. "Two Glocks 20, like you want. And ammo—plenty. 1000 euros. Cash only."
I blinked, surprised by the price—double what Viktor had quoted, a blatant markup—but didn't argue, not with Miko's life on the line. I handed over the bills from my hidden stash, the paper crisp and folded, counting them out under his watchful eye. "Deal. These clean?"
He snorted, pocketing the money. "Clean as they come. No questions."
Back in the car, I passed one Glock and half the ammo to Akira, the metal cold and heavy in my palm. "You know how to use this?" I asked, chambering a round in mine with a satisfying click, the slide smooth.
She examined it closely, her claws tracing the barrel before loading a mag with deft fingers. "Enough to make it count," she said grimly. "Point and shoot, right? Let's get my sister."
I started driving to Bucharest, the road stretching ahead like a vein pulsing into the heart of danger, highways unfurling through picturesque countryside—fields of golden wheat swaying in the breeze, distant mountains rising like silent guardians. Hours blurred into a monotonous grind—stops for gas at dimly lit stations under fluorescent buzz, where we grabbed black coffee bitter as regret to stay alert, the steam rising from styrofoam cups mingling with the scent of diesel. Akira dozed in fits, her head lolling against the window, breaths even but shallow, while I pushed on relentlessly, fatigue clawing at the edges of my vision, the engine's hum a constant companion through the fading light.
We drove through the whole night—stars wheeling overhead in a vast, indifferent sky, the road illuminated by headlights cutting through the darkness, occasional trucks rumbling past like ghosts. Border crossings were tense, papers checked under harsh lights, but we slipped through without issue, the guards disinterested in our story. Dawn broke as we hit the city limits of Bucharest—sprawling streets alive with early morning energy, historic buildings with ornate facades mixed with modern glass towers, traffic honking in chaotic symphony, the air thick with exhaust, street food vendors firing up grills with sizzling meats, and the bustle of people in coats and scarves hurrying to work.
I parked in a shadowed side alley off a busy boulevard, the car tucked between dumpsters overflowing with trash, the stench of decay wafting in. Hiding the Glock and a few mags in my jacket pocket—the weight heavy and reassuring against my chest, the cold metal a promise of action—I stepped out onto the bustling streets, Akira close behind. The city pulsed around us—cobblestone paths slick from overnight dew, vendors hawking fresh pastries and coffee from carts, their steam rising in curls, tourists snapping photos of baroque architecture, locals weaving through with purposeful strides. I pulled out my phone, fingers steady despite the adrenaline, and dialed the unknown number, heart thundering like a drum in my ears.
Dimitar answered on the second ring, his voice a gravelly sneer. "You're here? Good boy."
"Yeah," I growled, keeping it short. "Where?"
A pause, the sound of traffic in his background. "Cafe Central. Downtown square. Be there in an hour. Come alone—or she suffers." Click—the line dead, leaving only the city's roar.
Akira and I navigated the crowds—sidewalks teeming with people, the scent of roasted chestnuts and espresso mingling, street performers strumming guitars for coins. The cafe came into view: outdoor tables scattered in an open, bustling square, wrought-iron chairs under striped awnings, lots of people milling about—tourists with maps, locals sipping lattes, kids chasing pigeons across the cobblestones. Hard to do anything shady here—too public, too exposed, eyes everywhere. We took a seat at a corner table shaded by a large umbrella, the chair cold and metal under me, scanning faces in the crowd—waiters bustling with trays of steaming cups and pastries, conversations buzzing in Romanian and English.
We waited, tension coiling like a spring in my gut, the square's energy a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside. Every passing minute felt like an eternity, Akira's tail twitching under the table, my hand inching toward the hidden gun.