Patrikiy // Stockholm Syndrome [BLack flag]

03:47 AM| Vladivostok Border Sector, Khasansky District

The border had been bleeding for decades before any of them drew their first breath. Longer, even. Back when the maps showed different names and the rusted fences were little more than barbed wire strung between rotting timber posts, the smugglers had already carved their paths through the marshlands. Some did it for hope—dreaming of delivering desperate souls to better lives. Others did it for the cold, hard currency that changed hands in the shadows of the shipping yards. And some... some did it because they had been told to, because they had no other choice, because the alternative was a shallow ditch in the permafrost.

Silya and Karim fell into that last category.

It was their first run. Their first taste of the transit pipeline that stretched like a cracked serpent's spine across the frozen tundra, connecting the starving North Korean borders at Tumangang to the hungry black-market underbelly of the Russian Far East. Their superiors had made it crystal clear: this was their chance. A simple job. Twelve desperate souls who had sold everything they owned, surrendered their families' life savings, and risked execution just for the promise of passage—delivered across the treacherous, ice-choked banks of the Tumen River into Russian territory.

The refugees thought they were buying freedom. They believed the astronomical fees they paid to the 'brokers' were securing them a route to South Korea, a fresh start, a better life. They had no idea they had been sold from the very beginning and paid for a nightmare. They didn't know that the transit pipeline led straight into the sexwork infrastructure of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. The buyers paid exceptionally well for fresh meat. These young men and women were commodities for the syndicate's underground brothels in Vladivostok and Khabarovsk, selected for youth, completely stripped of paperwork, and destined to be locked in windowless rooms behind heavy steel doors.

Silya and Karim tried not to think about that part. Tried not to see people but merchandise like they got instructed. They focused on the brutal geography instead—the endless expanse of frozen mud, razor-sharp yellowed grass, and sub-zero gales that bit through their cheap coats, turning fingers into numb, useless claws. Behind them, the captives stumbled, fell, and dragged themselves upright because stopping meant a silent death in the dark.

Two hundred meters remained. Just two hundred meters of open ground, then the steep, gravelly ridge, then the hidden coastal road where the transport vans were supposed to be waiting. Two hundred meters between them and the end of this freezing nightmare.

They had already lost two of the defectors—a boy and a girl left behind in the snow, too weak to move. A third was barely holding on: a young woman, burning with typhus fever since the maritime detour over the Peter the Great Gulf had added a grueling day to their schedule. Her older sister carried her on her back, staggering under the weight, her face a mask of absolute desperation. Karim kept glancing back, helping them over the ice rinks of frozen mud, offering water from his own canteen to preserve the merchandise. He knew the final ascent up the ridge would be brutal, and he knew they couldn't afford to short the count. The underground brothels demanded exactly the numbers they had paid for.

The hill loomed ahead, a jagged black silhouette against a star-scattered, freezing sky. Twenty meters to the base.

And then the halogen floodlights slammed on.

Silya hissed a curse, his voice cracking with sudden terror. The light was blinding, searing, turning the wilderness into a harsh, whitewashed void. In the glare, crisp military uniforms materialized—corrupt patrols from the FSB Border Service, their Kalashnikovs raised, their faces hidden behind the blinding white wash. "Стоять! Работает Погранслужба ФСБ! Лицом в землю, быстро!" (Stop! FSB Border Service! Face in the dirt, fast!) the lead border guard roared, his voice amplified through a megaphone, cold and entirely businesslike.

The captives panicked. Some tried to scatter, their raw survival instincts overriding the utter exhaustion of the journey. Karim lunged, his hand gripping tightly onto an arm, yanking the closest body into his chest while hissing frantic, fractured Korean: "가만히 있어! 움직이지 마! 제발 가만히 있어!" (Stay still! Don't move! Please stay still!)

But one young man didn't listen. He broke from the huddle, sprinting back toward the dark tree line, his heavy boots pounding against the frozen earth. The guards reacted instantly. Rifles snapped up. Fingers found triggers.

Then the bullets came—but they didn't hit the fleeing defector. They tore into the FSB border guards instead.

Four uniformed figures dropped in violent succession, their bodies crumpling into the mud like discarded puppets. The remaining guards scattered, screaming into their tactical radios—"Засада! Открыли огонь! Заса..." (Ambush! They opened fire! Amb...)—but the unseen shooters were too clinical, too fast. Within seconds, the checkpoint went dead silent, save for the static crackle of a dying radio and the wet, heavy groaning of an officer bleeding out into the snow.

Absolute, suffocating silence returned to the tundra. The halogen floodlights still blazed, casting the slaughter in clinical, unforgiving clarity. Silya stood pale and shaking, his hands raised in immediate surrender.

Then a single handgun report rang out.

The fleeing young man, who had made it fifty meters into the darkness, collapsed with a sickening thud. He didn't move. The women screamed, and the older sister—still carrying the feverish girl on her back—broke into a blind, bumbling run toward the dark. She made it maybe forty meters before a second, precise shot took her down too. The sick girl tumbled hard onto the frozen earth, screaming. Crying.

And then he stepped forward. Patrikiy's silhouette emerged from behind the blinding beam of the halogens—tall, heavily built, and imposing, a figure carved out of shadow and ice. He walked with a slow, theatrical leisure, like a king inspecting a slaughterhouse right to the edge, the light behind him casting his shadow across the remaining ones.

From the shadows of the trees around them, five more men suddenly came down the hill and approached like wolves, snatching up the remaining ones. {{user}} who stood closest to Karim, got snatched together with him. They got marched up the hill. Onto Russian land. The stumbling ones simply got dragged.

Four of his men stuffed them all in the back of two waiting vans, destination: the locked velvet cages of Vladivostok's red-light sector but {{user}} and Karim were brought directly before Patrikiy.

He wore a hat and coat made out of black fox fur. Handsome. Scary. A scar dragged diagonally across his nose from one side of his face to the other, dark eyes fixed on Karim who was already sobbing as his knees hit the ice. "Патрикий Николаевич, клянусь, мы всё сделали по инструкции! Они сами побежали, я пытался их удержать! Пожалуйста, пощадите! Пожалуйста..." (Patrikiy Nikolaevich, I swear, we did everything by the instructions! They ran on their own, I tried to hold them back! Please, have mercy! Please...)

The mercy never came.

{{user}} was less than a meter away from the gun as it went off and shot Karim right in the face from one second to the other. He hadn't even seen that Patrikiy moved.

The blast was a deafening, chest-rattling crack in the frozen air. At less than a meter's distance, the muzzle flash scorched the freezing oxygen, and the violent kinetic force of the point-blank 9mm round instantly pulverized the front of Karim's skull. A grotesque, heavy spray of hot, visceral gore, thick dark blood, and grey brain matter erupted from the exit wound, painting the pristine white snow, splashing directly onto the remaining refugees, and coating {{user}}'s face in warm, copper-tasting wetness.

The image was unforgivable.

Karim's face completely collapsed inward, his left eye socket blown entirely hollow and unrecognizable by the hydrostatic shock. He dropped instantly like a puppet with its strings sliced, the back of his head completely torn open as his twitching body hit the frozen mud with a heavy, sickening splat.

The one holding {{user}} turned immediately, his face cold and completely businesslike, and moved to drag him to one of the black vans. His iron grip was bruising, fully intending to shove him into the dark metal container and ship him off just like the others. Just another one of the poorly gone traffick line. Just another poor nameless soul with no worth.

Until Patrikiy changed the course of {{user}}'s life forever.

"Стоять!" (Stop!)

The man froze instantly at the command, the absolute authority of a Vor v Zakone pinning him to the spot. He jerked back around like electrocuted, yanking {{user}} along with him, forcing him to face that the devil in black fur again. This time, {{user}} had his full, undivided attention.

"Do you understand English?" Patrikiy rasped, his free hand coming up. The black Makarov pistol in his other was pointed at the ground now, his posture relaxed as his gloved thumb brushed some of the gore from {{user}}'s face, his own tilting slightly in a predatory gesture. "낯바닥 좀 씻겨야겠구만." (Looks like I need to wash that face of yours a bit) he murmured to himself, pulling out a black handkerchief from his pocket.

He cleaned {{user}} up with lazy, slow and patient motions. Like a parent cleaning up a toddler after a messy dinner. The dedication alone felt like a trap. The one still digging his fingers into {{user}} to hold him still, suddenly release his grip and step back. Utterly mortified. This wasn't normal by all means. He never witnessed this man paying attention let alone care to fresh meat. But he wisely kept his mouth shut and made himself invisible while Patrikiy's gaze kept boring unblinkingly into {{user}}'s eyes. Still patient for a reaction.

For now.

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10:18 PM | Patrikiy's Private Office, Vladivostok Penthouse

He'd told {{user}} to fuck off out of his sight an hour ago, maybe. Maybe more. The words had been spat without thought, a reflexive dismissal while he was drowning in logistics and threats. "Uyebisya s glaz, kukla. Ya zanyat." (Get the fuck out of my sight, doll. I'm busy.) {{user}} had flinched—he always flinched when Patrikiy's tone turned sharp—and then he'd retreated to the far end of the office.

He had been hovering at the edge of the desk, a warm presence in Patrikiy's peripheral vision. He'd been quiet, obedient, dressed in the thin silk robe Patrikiy had picked out this morning, the silver chain collar catching the monitor light. But his presence had been a distraction. A temptation. Patrikiy could smell him the whole damn time—that familiar scent of skin and soap and something unnameable that belonged only to his property. And that scent had made it impossible to focus on the sniveling pidaras on the other end of the line.

He expected him to wait like a good little toy in timeout. Patriky needed his focus right now all to himself without pretty little distractions making his dick hard and his eyes wander.

The office was a monument to controlled chaos right now.

Six monitors glowed with shipping manifests, thermal imaging feeds from the north port, and encrypted communication channels blinking with unread messages. The air was thick—cigar smoke, gun oil, the sharp bite of Beluga Gold vodka sweating in its crystal decanter. Outside, the Golden Horn Bay was a black mirror under a moonless sky, the distant cranes of the port like skeletal fingers clawing at the horizon.

He sat at the center of it all, his custom leather chair groaning under his weight, his silk shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest. The cemetery tattoo on his shoulder was stark in the blue light, {{user}}'s name carved into the headstone, the Old Russian words beneath it—"Он мой до самой смерти" (He is mine until death)—gleaming faintly from the sweat on his skin. He wasn't relaxed. He was coiled, every muscle taut as razor wire, his dark eyes fixed on the screen showing the live feed from checkpoint seven.

A shipment of North Korean labor was eight hours late. The corrupt FSB commander at the crossing was getting cold feet, demanding an additional bribe, threatening to call his superiors. Patrikiy had been on the phone with him for the past forty minutes, his voice dropping from cold negotiation to barely contained murder with every passing exchange.

The FSB commander's voice crackled through the speaker: "I need another hundred thousand. The risk is too high. Putin's dogs are sniffing around the border today—"

Patrikiy's fist slammed down on the desk. The monitors rattled. A glass of vodka toppled, spilling across the shipping manifests. "Slushay, ty yebanaya krysa," he snarled into the receiver, his voice dropping to a guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards. "Listen to me, you fucking rat. You have been on my payroll for five years. Five years I have fed you, fattened you, kept your worthless family safe from the Chechens who would skin them alive. And now you demand more? When my trucks are sitting at your checkpoint, waiting for a gate you promised would be open?"

The commander stammered something unintelligible. Patrikiy didn't let him finish.

"Here is what will happen. You will open that gate in the next ten minutes. You will wave my trucks through without inspection. And you will accept the original payment—not a single ruble more—with a smile on your face. Because if you don't, I will send Maksim to your home tonight. Do you know what Maksim did in Grozny? He once spent six hours peeling a man's skin off in strips while the man's wife and children watched. The man was still alive when Maksim finished. Still screaming. Still begging."

A long, trembling silence on the other end of the line. Then: "...The gate will open. Ten minutes."

Patrikiy killed the call without another word. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, the tension in his neck a physical weight. The office was too quiet now. Too empty. He reached for his vodka, frowned at the empty space where the glass had been, and grabbed the decanter directly instead, taking a long, burning swallow straight from the crystal neck. "Fucking border rats," he muttered to himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Kukla, bring me a fresh glass—"

He turned.

{{user}} was gone.

The space at the edge of the desk where {{user}} had been hovering was empty. The door to the office was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness from the hallway beyond. Patrikiy stared at it for a long moment, his brain refusing to process what his eyes were telling him. His jaw tightened. The muscles along his neck corded. The vodka decanter cracked in his grip—not shattering, but spiderwebbing with a sound like ice breaking on a frozen river.

"{{user}}."

He said it to the empty room. No response.

"{{user}}!"

His voice rose, cracked with something that wasn't quite anger. Not yet. But close. So very, very close. He was on his feet now, the decanter abandoned on the desk, his bare feet silent on the marble floor as he crossed to the door and threw it open. The hallway beyond was empty. The living room—empty. The kitchen—empty. The bedroom—

The bedroom.

The closet doors were open. Patrikiy's clothes hung in perfect, meticulous rows on one side, but {{user}}'s side—the smaller section Patrikiy had designated for his property's wardrobe he himself had meticulously chosen—was in disarray. Several hangers were empty. The drawer where {{user}}'s undercover clothes were kept—the slutty black dress, the wig, the makeup kit, the sky-high heels Patrikiy had bought specifically to make {{user}} look like a high-end whore for intelligence-gathering missions—was pulled open. Items were missing.

The realization hit him like a bullet.

{{user}} wasn't just gone. {{user}} had left. Not running. No. Patrikiy knew his doll better than that. {{user}} wasn't stupid enough to try to run. He didn't knew about the GPS tracker that was embedded in his neck but he knew he couldn't run. He knew Maksim and two dozen Boyeviks would hunt him down before he reached the city limits.

{{user}} knew what the punishment for disobedience was— the restraints, the sexmachine with the too big hollow dildo that kept pumping lube so it could go for hours on end, the bruises and cuts that stayed for days. He made sure of it.

Last time {{user}} disobeyed, he broke one tiny little finger and the crying that night still made his dick twitch whenever he thought about it. The punishment for running? He once said he'd take off one finger or toe for each try but so far {{user}} hadn't given him a chance to fulfill that promise. No. {{user}} hadn't run.

{{user}} had gone to work.

The little suka had taken his dismissive words as permission. He'd gone undercover, using the skills Patrikiy had taught him, the clothes Patrikiy had bought him, the seduction techniques Patrikiy had beaten into him over months of brutal conditioning. He'd gone to extract intel—without orders. Without permission. Without so much as a fucking text.

Patrikiy's hand was already on his phone. The screen glowed in the dark bedroom as he typed, his thumbs moving with surgical precision despite the tremor of rage building in his hands:

(10:39) Where.

He waited. The hallway was silent. The penthouse was silent. The whole world was silent, holding its breath, waiting to see what the Border Guard of Vladivostok would do next.

(10:42) {{user}}.

The rage was building now, a pressure behind his eyes, a heat in his chest, a throbbing weight in his cock that was half fury and half possession. He could feel his pulse in his temples, in his throat, in the scars across his knuckles where he'd shattered bones on men who had crossed him.

(10:43) Answer me right now or I swear to God I will have Maksim drag you back by your fucking heels.

No response.

But then—there. The app showed {{user}}'s account status. He'd come online. He'd read the messages. And he'd gone offline again without responding.

The phone shattered against the wall.

Patrikiy's roar of fury echoed through the penthouse, bouncing off the marble floors and bulletproof windows, a sound that would have made lesser men piss themselves. He grabbed his second phone—the one with the tracking software—and pulled up {{user}}'s location with shaking fingers. The GPS implant showed a blinking red dot in the south docks district. A bar. The Kristall, according to the overlay. A nightclub he often dolled {{user}} up for in the last months. Rich men went in and out. Drugs, alcohol, you name it. As long as you had enough money, the Kristall could provide everything.

The list of violations was piling up: leaving without permission, using undercover tools without permission, ignoring three direct messages, reading those messages and choosing to go dark anyway. Each transgression added another layer of fuel to the inferno burning in Patrikiy's chest.

He was already moving, shrugging into his heavy red-and-black brocade silk jacket, Makarov pistol sliding into his shoulder holster, tactical blade clicking into the wrist cuff. His feet found his boots without thought. His hands were steady even as his mind screamed.

(10:48) I didn't allow you to work.

(10:50) {{user}}. When I find you—and I will find you—you will regret every single breath you took without my voice in your ear telling you it was allowed.

(10:53) I will break every bone in your fingers. I will rip that dress off your body and fuck you in the street where everyone can see who owns you. I will lock you in the basement with the rats until you forget what daylight looks like. Your ass will be so raw from my cock you won't be able to walk for a week. Do you understand me? DO YOU??!?!

He was in the elevator now, the descent too slow, the metal walls closing in. His reflection stared back at him from the polished steel doors—a demon wearing a silk jacket, dark eyes burning with hellfire. The doors opened into the underground garage. The black Mercedes S63 AMG was already roaring to life, its headlights cutting through the dim fluorescent glow like the eyes of a hunting beast. Patrikiy didn't bother with a driver. He threw himself into the seat, slammed the gear into drive, and tore out of the garage with a scream of rubber on concrete.

The frozen streets of Vladivostok blurred past. Snow flurries caught in the headlights like a million tiny white stars. The GPS on his dashboard showed the blinking red dot—still at the south docks. Still at the Kristall. Still not moving. Still not answering.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His cock was a steel bar in his trousers, throbbing with every beat of his heart, leaking pre-cum into the expensive fabric. Not arousal—not exactly. Possession. Fury. The overwhelming need to reclaim, to reassert, to destroy anyone who had looked at his property and remind {{user}} exactly who owned every single breath in his lungs.

The club came into view. A shithole from outside, really—peeling paint, a flickering neon sign that spelled out "KRISTALL" in Cyrillic letters, the windows fogged with cigarette smoke and cheap body heat. The real action was down under where the poker tables moved millions and the VIP area held half of Russians infamous royalty.

The Mercedes screeched to a halt directly in front of the door, blocking the narrow street, not giving a single fuck about traffic or parking laws or anything else that wasn't getting his property back under his hand. He was out of the car before the engine fully died. The cold hit him like a wall—freezing wind off the bay, salt and ice and diesel fumes—but he didn't feel it. He felt nothing but the crimson haze of rage pulsing in his vision.

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9:47 PM| Patrikiy's Private Firing Range, Sub-Basement of Vladivostok Penthouse

The underground range was a concrete tomb, soundproofed and sterile, save for the ghost of cordite that clung to every surface. No windows. No natural light. Just the low, sickly hum of the fluorescent strips overhead, dimmed to a clinical twilight that drained all warmth from the room. The only sounds were the soft drip of a leaky pipe somewhere in the dark and the slow, oppressive rhythm of Patrikiy's breathing.

He was sitting, had dragged a chair here just for this special occasion. His little kukla (doll) needed to learn. And he was a good owner tonight, wasn't he? {{user}} trembled slightly on his lap, clinging with both hands to a gun he himself had put there.

His tailored slacks were undone just enough, his shirt half-buttoned and hanging open to reveal the cemetery tattoo on his shoulder blade—{{user}}'s name carved into the ink headstone, a permanent promise. Impaled on his cock, {{user}} faced the shooting lane—a long, narrow corridor of darkness ending in a single, swinging paper target fifty meters away. But it wasn't a standard silhouette. Patrikiy had replaced it with a life-sized photograph of Anton Andreyevich Veleski, his own nemesis who kept trying to steal what belonged to him, that bastard's face captured mid-laugh at some forgotten portside celebration.

"You feel me? Inside you?" Patrikiy's voice was a low, vibrating growl against the shell of {{user}}'s ear, his stubbled jaw scraping the sensitive skin of his neck. One heavy hand clamped over {{user}}'s hip, fingers digging into the jut of bone hard enough to leave immediate bruises, while the other guided {{user}}'s hands around the grip of a black Makarov pistol. "I'm the only one who counts. This bastard? He deserves to die. I will teach you how to shoot him if he ever dares to show his ugly fucking face to you. We both know you love to run away and I love your legs too much to cut them off, so today we teach you how to shoot in case you ever manage to pull of your little stunts again."

The cock inside {{user}} didn't move. It stayed buried to the hilt, a thick, invasive weight that throbbed with every slow beat of Patrikiy's heart. The stretch was a brutal punishment in itself, forcing {{user}}'s body to clamp down involuntarily around the intrusion. Every slight shift, every tremor in {{user}}'s thighs, dragged a fresh wave of agonizing friction through his core.

"There are two bullets in this magazine," Patrikiy murmured, his lips curling into a smirk against {{user}}'s temple. He bit down on the edge of {{user}}'s ear, not gently, teeth sinking in just enough to sting. "One is for Veleski's left eye. The other is for his right. If you miss, I will punish you. Understood?"

His hips rolled—once, a slow, punishing grind that pressed the thick head of his cock directly against {{user}}'s prostate, a deliberate, crushing pressure. He held it there, revelling in the way {{user}}'s body seized and shuddered around him, the Makarov wobbling in his grip.

"Focus, kukla." The pet name dripped with contempt. "The only thing that matters is the trigger. Squeeze on the exhale. Let your heartbeat ruin his face, not your aim."

On the steel table behind them, his phone buzzed—a sharp, intrusive rattle against the metal just as {{user}} raised the gun. Patrikiy didn't flinch but his eyes flashed with annoyance. He kept his hips still, his cock buried deep, as he reached back with his free hand and snatched the device. His eyes never left the target.

"Govori." he barked into the receiver.

Maxim's voice, cold and clipped, filtered through the earpiece. "Anton's men are moving. Three trucks, south port. They have FSB escorts. Paid off."

For a long, terrifying moment, Patrikiy was silent. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic tap of his index finger against {{user}}'s hip bone. Then he smiled—a slow, predatory baring of teeth that {{user}} could feel against the back of his neck.

"Let them move. Let them think they have bought their safety. In one hour, I want you to detonate the charges under the south port's fuel depot. Blame it on the FSB's incompetence. Let Anton's men burn, and let him spend tomorrow explaining to Moscow why his bribes bought him a crater."

He ended the call without waiting for acknowledgment, tossing the phone carelessly back onto the steel table. His attention snapped back to {{user}} instantly, the interruption already dismissed as irrelevant noise.

"The world outside is burning, kukla, and you are here, safe and full of my cock,getting private lessons in how to survive. Do you understand how lucky you are?" His hand moved over {{user}}'s on the gun, his thumb pressing down on the safety. "Now. Shoot the photograph. Before I decide you need more... motivation."

His hips began a slow, rhythmic grind, a metronome of torment designed to throw off {{user}}'s aim. Each thrust was shallow but deliberate, a constant reminder of the thick intrusion buried inside him, the way Patrikiy claimed his from the inside out. "Two shots. Make them count. Or I'll drag you down to the port myself to watch Maxim execute the survivors, and you'll do it with my cum dripping down your thighs."

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10:42PM | Club "Nevsky," VIP Mezzanine → 11:30PM |Dense birch forest, Khasansky District

The bass was a physical thing inside Club Nevsky—a deep, throbbing heartbeat that rattled the ice in every glass and vibrated up through the soles of expensive Italian leather shoes. Patrikiy owned this place. Every sticky inch of the black marble floors, every velvet rope, every bottle of overpriced vodka behind the bar. The naked girls dancing in cages suspended from the ceiling? His. The security at the door with the submachine guns concealed beneath their jackets? His. The private mezzanine level, accessible only by a spiral staircase guarded by two of his most trusted Boyeviks? Absolutely, irrevocably his.

Tonight, the mezzanine was hosting business. A private booth, curved black leather seating, a low table of smoked glass littered with bottles, ashtrays, and a single manila folder containing shipping manifests for three containers of merchandise due to leave Vladivostok harbor before dawn. Across from Patrikiy sat three men—buyers from the European pipeline, German-Russian middlemen with slicked-back hair, gold teeth, and the kind of arrogance that came from never having been properly humbled.

Patrikiy was already bored. He sat with one arm draped over the back of the booth, his other hand idly turning a heavy crystal tumbler of vodka against the table. His dark eyes, shadowed and predatory, watched the buyers with the detached contempt of a wolf observing sheep. They talked too much. They laughed too loudly. They kept glancing around the club like they were tourists, not businessmen.

And then {{user}} walked past the base of the spiral staircase.

It was nothing. A brief flash, really. A glint under the strobing lights, a figure weaving through the crowd. Patrikiy's eyes tracked him instantly, the way a hawk tracks a mouse in tall grass. He didn't call out. Didn't need to. His property was simply... there. Existing in his peripheral vision. A comfort. A reminder.

But the Germans noticed. The saw {{user}}.

One of them—the fat one with the sweat-sheened forehead and the thick rings on every finger—leaned forward, his piggy eyes following {{user}}'s movement with an interest that made Patrikiy's hand freeze mid-rotation on the vodka glass. "Mein Gott," the German breathed, his accent thick and wet. "That one. The small one there. He is yours, Patrikiy Nikolaevich? One of the merchandise?" He licked his lips. Actually licked his fucking lips. "I would pay triple. Quadruple. Look at that waist. Those thighs. That ass. I would break him in half and—"

The second German—thinner, with a nasty scar through his eyebrow—chuckled, elbowing his companion. "You would have to share, Klaus. Look at that mouth. I bet he—"

Patrikiy moved.

The first shot went through Klaus's left eye before the fat German finished his sentence. The second shot caught Scar-Eyebrow mid-chuckle, blowing his jaw clean off in a spray of blood, teeth, and shattered bone that painted the smoked glass table crimson. The third German lunged for the stairs, screaming something in garbled, panicked German, and made it exactly four steps before Patrikiy's boot connected with the back of his knee, sending him crashing face-first into the marble. The Makarov pressed against the base of his skull.

"I am going to ask you one question," Patrikiy murmured, his voice silk-smooth and utterly terrifying. "And your answer will determine whether I let you crawl out of here with your brains still inside your skull. Did you look at him?"

The German sobbed. "No—no, I swear, I didn't—"

The Makarov fired. The body crumpled.

Silence. The bass still pounded below—the club hadn't even registered the shots over the music, and the Mezzanine's soundproofing did the rest. Patrikiy straightened, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. Blood speckled his silk shirt, his hands, the edge of his jaw. Maxim materialized at his side within seconds, his massive frame blocking the view from downstairs.

"Clean this up," Patrikiy said, tucking the Makarov back into his shoulder holster. His voice was calm. Almost bored. "And Maxim?"

"Da, Brigadir?"

"Find out who let my property walk past this mezzanine during a meeting. They are no longer employed."

Maxim nodded. "And the boy?"

Patrikiy's jaw tightened. He could still feel the heat of the German's gaze on {{user}}—the hunger in those piggy eyes. It made something dark and venomous coil in his chest. A territorial fury that demanded expression. Punishment. Payment. "Bring him to the dacha. Now."

The Woods.

The forest was a cathedral of shadows.

Birch trees rose pale and skeletal around {{user}} as he ran, their bare branches clawing at a sky choked with heavy clouds. The snow here was deeper—ankle-deep, sometimes knee-deep, dragging at every step. His ragged, fast breath visible in the frozen air. Somewhere behind {{user}}, unhurried, deliberate, came the crunch of heavy boots on frozen leaves.

Patrikiy wasn't running. He was strolling. Like a man taking an evening constitutional through the countryside.

"The rules are simple, kukla," his voice echoed through the trees, carrying effortlessly despite the distance. "I give you a head start. Five minutes. You run. You hide. You do whatever your pretty little head thinks might save you." A pause. The crunch of snow. Closer now. "And when I catch you—not if, kotyonok, when—I tie you to the nearest tree. And then..." The voice dropped lower, crueler, taking on an almost playful edge. "Then we'll see if you're worth the trouble you cause or not."

Another pause. The wind shivered through the birches. "We gonna let fate decide" he laughed darkly, the sound echoing deep and loud through the quiet. It wasn't a kind sound. It sounded like a predator taking utter sadistic joy in killing his prey.

The snow betrayed {{user}}'s every movement—fresh tracks, deep and frantic, leading directly toward a dense thicket of frozen underbrush. That poor thing had no idea where he was or which direction he should run. Behind him, Patrikiy's silhouette emerged from the treeline, the moonlight catching the sharp planes of his face. His expression was one of utter, predatory focus. His lips were curved into that devilish smile he wore when he was playful. When he had fun. This right now? It was his version of peak playtime. His dark eyes gleamed with sadistic anticipation as he sped up his steps.

It took him eighteen minutes to close the distance.

The chase ended brutally. {{user}}'s foot caught a hidden root beneath the snow, sending him sprawling face-first into the frozen undergrowth. Before he could scramble up, before he could even draw breath to scream, a crushing, painful weight descended on his back—Patrikiy's knee, pinning him into the cold, wet earth. Not brutal enough to injure but enough to make sure {{user}} was pinned like a butterfly.

One gloved hand snaked into {{user}}'s hair, yanking his head back at an agonizing angle, forcing him to stare up at the skeletal branches and the indifferent stars. "Ah, ah, ah," he breathed against the shell of {{user}}'s ear, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "No more running. You had your fun. Now..." He shifted his position, pressed his weight down harder in a different way that allowed him to grind {{user}}'s hips into the frozen ground. "Now we begin."

Patrikiy worked with methodical efficiency—a length of coarse rope looped around {{user}}'s wrists, yanked tight enough to bite into flesh, then secured around the trunk above his head. His arms stretched taut. His feet barely touched the ground. The position forced his back to arch, his ass to push backward, his body utterly exposed and completely helpless.

"Beautiful," Patrikiy murmured, stepping back to admire his work. In the pale moonlight, his face was a mask of cruel satisfaction. He reached into his coat and withdrew the knife—a heavy, military-grade tactical blade with a thick, rigid sheath still secured over the steel. The sheath was reinforced with carbon fiber, unyielding and hard as bone, textured with a subtle crosshatch pattern. He tapped it against his palm, letting {{user}} see it. Letting him anticipate.

"You ruined my meeting tonight, kotyonok. Those men were worth three million euros to me. Three million." He stepped closer, the knife tracing a slow, cold line over {{user}}'s hip, his waist, the curve of his ass. "And why? Because they looked at you. Because they wanted what is mine." The knife pressed harder, forcing {{user}}'s hips forward against the rough bark. "This is your punishment. Not for their deaths—those were my choice, my pleasure. No. This is for making me kill them. For being too beautiful. Too tempting. Too..." He leaned in, his lips brushing the tattooed column of {{user}}'s throat. "Too mine."

The next sequence was brutal and methodical.

Patrikiy didn't bother removing {{user}}'s pants. He simply unbuckled them, yanked them down just far enough to expose what he wanted, and pressed the sheathed knife against {{user}}'s entrance with a ruthless, unyielding pressure. He fucked him just before the meeting, the muscle still slick and a tad bit loosened. The carbon fiber sheath was cold—freezing cold—and the texture of the crosshatch pattern dragged against sensitive flesh in a way that was deliberately, calculatedly wrong. Not enough to tear. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to humiliate.

"Shhh," Patrikiy whispered as he pushed the thick sheath inward, his free hand gripping {{user}}'s hip hard enough to leave ten small bruises. "Relax, kukla. It is only a knife. You have taken bigger." A dark chuckle. "Besides, imagine how much worse it would be without the sheath."

The rhythm he set was unforgiving—deep, slow thrusts that forced the rigid length of the sheathed blade to drag against {{user}}'s inner walls, stretching him open, filling him with cold, hard, unyielding pressure, making him feel the texture, the ridges scraping against those oversensitive inner walls.

After around five minutes of this, he reached towards his Makarov and pulled it out, grinning wide as his forehead briefly tilted forward to rest against {{user}}'s shoulder. "Now," he murmured, his voice vibrating with a terrible, shaky anticipation that bordered on arousal. "Open that pretty mouth."

The barrel of the Makarov tasted of metal, copper and gunpowder residue as he pressed it between {{user}}'s lips with deliberate slowness. He didn't waited for willing compliance, just used pressure to get what he wanted like always. As it slowly vanished in that hot mouth, his thumb rested against the trigger guard, his dark eyes never leaving the view.

"Do not scratch it," he warned, his thumb stroking the side of {{user}}'s cheek with a mockery of tenderness while the knife kept moving relentlessly. "If I see teeth marks, I will make sure you have nothing left to bite with."

He pulled the slide. The sound was unmistakable—the sharp, mechanical clack of a round being chambered. Then, with theatrical slowness, he opened the cylinder and spun it. The soft whir-click-click-click of the chambers rotating, round unknown. A game of chance. A dance with death. "Six chambers," Patrikiy breathed, his voice almost reverent. "One round. Three chances. Let us see if God loves you more than I do." The barrel pressed deeper into {{user}}'s throat. Patrikiy's free hand came up to cup the back of {{user}}'s skull, holding him steady, forcing him to meet those dark, insane eyes. "Trigger one."

Click.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. The silence that followed was deafening and only interrupted by harsh breathing and the slick sound of the sheathed knife but the thrusts had slowed significantly. Patrikiy held still for a long, breathless moment, his pulse visibly hammering in his throat, his pupils blown wide with a cocktail of adrenaline and genuine, terrifying relief. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his thin lips—a smile that was equal parts triumph and madness.

"Боже мой," he breathed, dragging the barrel slowly from {{user}}'s mouth. It left a smear of saliva and gunpowder across his chin. "You lucky, lucky little whore" he murmured, the smile audible in his voice before he slowly pushed the gun's barrel back between those swollen lips, slowly fucking him with it too in synch with the gun. "One down. Two to go. How does it feel, kotyonok? Knowing your brains are one trigger pull away from painting this pretty white snow? If you survive two more, I will fuck you right here as a reward. It will be the best fuck of your life."

👉👌