Kapitel 67: Chapter 64
So, he's trying to get me drunk, huh?
Beom's first instinct was to reach for the glass, but he stopped himself, pretending to be intrigued by the room's layout instead. He subtly pushed the glass to the side of the table, careful not to draw too much attention to it. He didn't trust Vladimir for a second, and he certainly wasn't about to fall into whatever trap the man had prepared for him.
"Well, I must say, you really have a luxurious room, Mr. Popov," Beom said, his voice smooth as he leaned back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. He studied the room again, this time with more purpose. "I can see your taste for the finer things in life is... exceptional." He glanced at the glass Vladimir had set before him, his lips curling into a subtle, knowing smile. "I suppose someone of your stature would only expect the best, though."
Beom's thoughts raced. Is this a test? Does he want me to drink it? He probably expects me to play into his hands, but I'm not stupid enough to fall for that... not yet.
He had to be careful, careful not to let his guard down, especially not with someone like Vladimir Popov. The man was dangerous, calculated, and Beom knew that if he wasn't vigilant, he'd be walking straight into a trap.
Vladimir sat down across from him, eyes gleaming with a look that was both inviting and predatory. He raised his own glass and took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving Beom's face. "I hope you don't mind, Mr. Kim. A man like me... we don't have many opportunities to have a proper conversation with someone like you, someone who knows how to play the game."
Beom's smile was barely there, more a twitch of his lips than anything else, but his mind was razor-sharp, already plotting his next move. He raised an eyebrow and leaned in just slightly, maintaining an air of casual confidence. "Well, Mr. Popov, you're right about one thing. Not many people are worthy of a conversation with someone like me."
His words hung in the air for a moment, and though his tone was playful, his mind was focused entirely on the glass in front of him.
He's watching me. I'm not touching that drink until I know for sure what he's trying to do.
Vladimir took another swig of his drink, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink before shrugging off his coat. His eyes gleamed with a predatory glint as he began circling Beom like a hawk sizing up its prey. His voice droned on about trivialities, but Beom was barely paying attention, his instincts screaming that something was about to happen.
And then it did.
Without warning, Vladimir lunged forward, grabbing Beom by the chest with greedy hands, his lips pressing against Beom's neck in a wet, revolting kiss. Beom froze for a second, pure disgust paralyzing him as the smell of Vladimir's cologne and alcohol mixed nauseatingly in his nostrils.
What the hell is this old bastard doing? Beom thought furiously, his hands clenching into fists as his jaw tightened. He could feel Vladimir's clammy hands, his desperate, lecherous energy.
"D-dirty old hag!" Beom growled through gritted teeth before turning sharply and delivering a devastating punch straight to Vladimir's face. The older man stumbled back, collapsing onto the floor with a groan, blood trickling from his nose.
Beom stood over him, seething. "Damn it! Why am I always surrounded by perverts? What's next—a circus of creeps?" He bent down to rummage through Vladimir's pockets, grumbling under his breath. "Let's see if you're hiding anything useful, you filthy pig." His fingers brushed against something hard, and he yanked it free—a sleek black remote.
"Finally," Beom muttered. But as he straightened up, a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. His vision blurred, and he stumbled, clutching his head. "Ugh... but I didn't even drink the damn spiked drink!" he muttered weakly, his legs buckling beneath him.
As he fell to the floor, his phone buzzed in his pocket. With trembling hands, he fumbled it out and pressed it to his ear. "Nakwon? Why are you calling now?" he rasped, his voice faint but tinged with irritation.
On the other end, Nakwon's voice was frantic and trembling, nearly drowned out by the sound of crying. "Beom! Get out of there! Get out now! Leave that place, especially Sasha!"
Beom's blood ran cold. "What... slow down. What are you talking about?"
Nakwon's words hit like a freight train. "Sasha isn't your real partner. He's Yaroslav!"
Beom's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. "But... but how? That doesn't make sense!"
"I don't know!" Nakwon sobbed. "The results were tampered with! I just got the report... Beom, you're in danger!"
Beom struggled to process the words, his head swimming. "This doesn't make sense... Why would he—" Before he could finish, a sharp pain shot through his leg. He looked down to see Vladimir, bloodied but smirking, jabbing a syringe into his thigh.
"You bastard!" Beom snarled, kicking out violently. His boot connected with Vladimir's face, sending the man sprawling, but the damage was already done. A burning sensation spread through Beom's body, his muscles weakening as he collapsed to the floor. "What... what was injected into me?" he slurred, his vision dimming.
He heard footsteps—steady, deliberate—and saw polished leather shoes step into his blurred line of sight. He tilted his head upward, his heart sinking as Sasha's familiar figure came into focus.
"Oh, there you are," Sasha drawled, his voice dripping with smug amusement. But there was something different about him—his smirk was darker, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glint Beom had never seen before.
Beom tried to move, but his limbs felt like lead. Sasha crouched down and effortlessly scooped Beom up, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Let go of me, you disgusting pig!" Beom snarled weakly, pounding his fists against Sasha's back, but his strength was rapidly fading.
"You still have a mouth on you," Sasha said with a chilling grin as he carried Beom into the bedroom. He tossed Beom onto the bed with an unsettling ease, towering over him as Beom tried to crawl away. Sasha pinned him in place with a firm grip, his hands roaming possessively.
"Let go of me!" Beom growled, struggling against Sasha's grip, his hands pushing futilely at the man's chest. Sasha only chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent shivers down Beom's spine. His strength felt drained, his body sluggish, and every attempt to free himself seemed to amuse Sasha more than deter him.
Sasha reached into his pocket, pulling out the remote Beom had risked so much to retrieve. With a flick of his finger, he pressed a button, and a section of the wall slid away with a mechanical hum. Beom froze, his breath hitching as a hidden compartment revealed itself, adorned with a single photograph in a glass frame.
Beom squinted, trying to focus despite the haze clouding his mind. The picture looked eerily familiar—half of it, at least. His heart sank as memories came rushing back. The photo he had seen at Vyshnevsky's mansion flashed in his mind, the torn edge jagged and incomplete.
No...
The other half of that same photo was here. His chest tightened as he pieced it together. His mind raced, frantically trying to dismiss the impossible connection forming before his eyes. But as he squinted harder, the faces in the photograph became unmistakable. One of them—staring back at him like a haunting specter—was Sasha.
Beom's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. His stomach churned, a nauseating mix of fear and realization hitting him like a sledgehammer. No... This can't be. Not him. Not Sasha. His mind screamed at the impossibility, but the evidence was staring him in the face.
Beom turned his head slowly, as if delaying the inevitable, and his gaze met Sasha's. The man's grin was wider now, stretched into something sinister, his white teeth gleaming in the dim light. There was something predatory in his expression, something cold and calculated.
"So... you're Yaroslav," Beom whispered, his voice trembling despite the defiance in his words. His heart thundered in his chest, the pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. "No. This can't be."
Desperation surged through him. He reached out, grabbing Sasha's shirt in trembling fists. With a sharp yank, the fabric tore, exposing the skin beneath. And there it was—the confirmation he never wanted to see.
Two dragons entwined in an elaborate dance, their tails coiled around the Russian letter V in the center. Beom's stomach dropped. The tattoo was identical to the one Sasha himself had mentioned in passing during one of their conversations, back when things felt normal, safe.
Back when Sasha wasn't the embodiment of every nightmare Beom had ever feared.
"Surprise," Sasha said, his deep voice dripping with mockery as he looked down at Beom. His grin only widened, the corners of his lips curling in sadistic glee. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and triumph, his posture relaxed and dominant.
Beom felt his breathing quicken, his body trembling with adrenaline and betrayal. How could I have missed this? How could I have trusted him? His thoughts spiraled out of control, clawing for answers, for logic, for anything to make sense of the storm inside him.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein