Mikhail | Black Duma

Gambling was made to destroy people. There was nothing but soulless individuals sucking up their life savings, their next generations life savings, and borrowing money that didn’t exist in hopes of making it big. But even those who made it big got stuck in the cycle, wanting to get bigger, and bigger, until there was nothing left of them, or the money that got sucked back into the system.

The Gutter was restless. Even at dawn, the underground cage beneath the gym throbbed with leftover noise. Bodies taken further underground, blood stained canvas being wiped to new, metal gates clanging shut, money being counted in back rooms where the lights were always too bright. Cigarette smoke hung low. Mikhail Romanov stood near the edge of the pit, his arms crossed and eyes flat as he listened.

“Romanov,” one of the bookies said nervously, flipping through a ledger with shaking fingers. “We have a problem. Again.” Mikhail didn’t move. He didn’t look at him either. “Say it.”

The bookie swallowed. “Sergei. Your regular. He stopped showing up.”

That got Mikhail’s attention. He turned slowly, grey eyes shining with a hint of amusement. “Sergei doesn’t run,” he said. “Sergei loses, and comes back. He ran, ah? With what money?”

The bookie looked down at the cash logs, completely used to this happening at this point. “He took another loan. Bigger this time, though. After the win last month. Thought he could keep riding it.”

“How much,” Mikhail asked.

The ledger slid across the table. Mikhail glanced at it once then laughed. “He ran,” Mikhail said. Sergei took the bait, didn’t he? Ten million dollars that didn’t truly exist. He was a fool, but even fools had to be punished.

“Yes. Phones dead. Apartment empty. No travel records.”

Mikhail leaned back, cracking his neck. “He is a coward.” He tapped the ledger with one finger. “He leave anything behind?”

The room went silent, as other members started to show interest. “...A kid,” someone muttered. “They’re grown. Lives local.”

Mikhail nodded, almost thoughtful. This wasn’t the first time someone gambled away their lives and thought leaving behind family would suffice. Mikhail would kill them all. Obstacles only made a game more fun. “Good,” he said. “That saves time.”

A few weeks later, the car ride was quiet. Roads filled with snow stretched endlessly as Moscow fell away, replaced by trees and shadow. Mikhail sat in the back seat, rolling a coin over his knuckles, eyes half-lidded as he listened to updates through his burner phone.

“No sign of Sergei,” Roman’s voice crackled through. “But the kid’s real. Clean record. I don’t think they even know what their father did. They filed a police report about him going missing.”

Mikhail didn’t pay that any mind. Of course they didn’t know. Families usually were kept away from the atrocities committed, or else the person would be sent away faster. Divorces, custody battles, imprisonment. “I’m watching them,” Mikhail said plainly as he stared out the window, out at the figure that was kicking at balls of hardened snow as they walked down the sidewalk.

He had been watching them for weeks now, every move they made. They were always alone, walking this same path back to their house in the evenings. His job was easy then. Grabbing the bag in one hand, Mikhail got out of the car with precision, keeping his footsteps quiet before he made his move.

A bag on their head, tied to keep their vision away. Ropes around their arms, hands, legs, feet. They were hogtied, but not before Mikhail got a good taste of the fear on their face as they looked at him, before they were shoved back into his car.

The drive was slow, and he had intentionally turned the heat off so the cold would seep in during the drive. It had been hours since their screams and cries had gone quiet, and Mikhail wondered if they had given up, or just fallen asleep.

When he had reached his destination, the sharp, ice cold bite of night air hit against his skin. Above him, the branches creaked as the wind moved around. The sun had finally begun to fall down. Mikhail had gotten them out of the car, and he stood a few feet away, watching.

He waited until their breathing steadied. Until their consciousness returned fully. He crouched, boots crunching softly against the frozen leaves. “You’re awake,” he said calmly. He straightened, unhurried, and checked his watch.

“Your father owes me millions,” Mikhail continued, voice even, conversational. “He ran. That was rude.” Mikhail tilted his head slightly, studying them. “I don’t like loose ends,” he said. “But I do like games.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a knife. “I was going to kill you quickly,” he admitted. “But then I thought... No. That would be boring. That wouldn’t make me feel like I have gotten my money back, ya?” He stepped back, boots sinking into the soil. The knife in his hand pressed into their skin, drifting down from their cheek, all the way down their chest, then to the rope tying them.

“I’ll give you thirty minutes to run,” he said eventually. “Run, hide well. If you make it to dawn, I will let you live, ‘kay?” He cut the ropes and stood back, throwing the knife down towards them. “I like when my prey fights back,” He turned, already walking away “Run,” Mikhail called over his shoulder, voice almost indulgent. “Hide well.”

He lit a cigar as he took a hunting rifle out of the trunk. “Zaychik.”

Mikhail had always hated messes, but what he hated more than that, was the disgusting mess that Nikolai always made. The air in Nikolai’s makeshift clinic smelled like antiseptic and iron, in a nauseating way.

The lights hummed overhead, casting a sick, white glow across the tiled floors that were already beginning to become stained dark. A man lay open on the operating table, chest cavity exposed, ribs spread like a butchered animal. Machines beeped steady as Nikolai worked with a weird, surgical calm. Nikolai seemed to be having too much fun, his eyes trailing over to the television that played Tom and Jerry, as if he didn’t have a human flayed underneath him, and tables of other sleeping humans surrounding him.

“Heart’s still strong,” Nikolai said cheerfully, not looking up. “Shame. He would have lived a long time if he hadn’t owed money. We could’ve made more if you wanted to sell him,” he said.

Roman stood a few feet away, immaculate as ever, hands folded behind his back. He watched with the detached interest of a man observing a market fluctuation rather than a human being carved apart. “... Burly men don’t sell well,” he responded plainly. The market would buy a lot, but not many people wanted to own something that could fight them back.

“Debts are very unfashionable,” Roman replied. “Especially unpaid ones.” The door at the far end of the room opened, and heavy footsteps echoed against the flooring.

Mikhail stepped inside, his presence alone shifting the atmosphere like a lion pride hunting a safari ride. His eyes flicked over to the body on the table, then back to the others. “You’re late,” Nikolai said, finally glancing up. “I had to start without you. I thought you would want to share a shot with me. Or hold my hand while I did this. He fought me, Mikey. You weren’t there to protect me,” the doctor said immaturely.

Mikhail could feel a tension headache forming already. “It’s a shame he didn’t kill you,” Mikhail rolled his eyes.

Roman turned to Mikhail, used to their banter by now. “We have a problem.” With that, Mikhail’s jaw tightened slightly. “We always do.”

Roman stepped closer, lowering his voice. Not out of fear, but habit. Because he knew that Nikolai would taunt them both. “Sergei, he can’t be found. He hid well, I tell you. The smartest thing that man has ever done, truly. But he left his kid behind.” Roman continued, “Borrowed bigger. Loan sharks reported missed payments. Then nothing. No sightings. No money withdrawals. No phone pings.”

Nikolai, the eavesdropper, clicked his tongue. “I hate when they run. So messy.”

Both men ignored him. But the silence didn’t last long. One of the women Nikolai had been operating on had woken up, anaesthesia wearing off as she jotted around frantically, eyes going from her own sewed into body, to everyone else. She screamed. Nikolai screamed back, jumping behind Mikhail.

This tension headache would not ease any time soon.

A few hours later, Mikhail still couldn’t breathe easily, even in his own domain. The concrete was cracked beneath the chair. The air was full of a smell that was vaguely sour. A dull ache at the base of his skull from the constant pinging from Nikolai’s calls.

The room itself was pretty sparse, with a few rusty and purposely dull weapons to use for torture, a stained bed, and a chained person just now waking up.

Mikhail Romanov stood directly in front of them. His eyes fixed on them with an intensity that was bordering on being unsettling; the blind spot in the other made his stare feel uneven, but he was looking right at them.

“You wake up fast,” he said, his voice curling around the words. He reached out, tilting their chin just enough to confirm that they were actually conscious, before withdrawing again. “Your father,” Mikhail continued, his voice low, “owes more money than most people earn in several lifetimes.” Mikhail’s eyes lowered. “And he ran.”

He straightened back up, his hands slipping back into his pockets, gaze never leaving them. “That leaves you,” he said simply. “What are our thoughts on that, zaychik?”