Bab 34: Chapter 32
"So that means Yaroslav wasn't the only one who created the code," Beom said, his voice laced with a mixture of realization and disbelief as he stared at the papers in front of him. The thought had been gnawing at the back of his mind since Sasha handed him the documents. The Seraphim Code wasn't just a product of one man's genius—or madness. It was bigger than that, involving more hands, more blood, and more secrecy than Beom had initially imagined.
Sasha chuckled softly, the sound low and almost mocking. "Yaroslav Olegovich Vyshnevsky was introduced into this mafia at a very young age," Sasha began, his tone carrying a note of casual storytelling, as if he were recounting a bedtime tale. "He started the creation of this code when he was just 12."
Beom's brow furrowed deeply, his mind racing. Twelve? He couldn't believe what he was hearing. How the hell does a twelve-year-old even begin to understand something as complex as the Seraphim Code? Was he really that much of a prodigy, or was it something else? The image of a young boy—vulnerable, yet somehow calculating—began to form in Beom's mind. What kind of childhood pushes someone to start building a weapon like this? Was it survival? Ambition? Or just sheer indoctrination?
He exhaled sharply, the pieces slowly falling into place, but they only formed a bigger, darker puzzle. "So that means Yaroslav was the one who killed them," Beom said, his voice colder now, tinged with suspicion and anger. He glanced up at Sasha, searching for confirmation.
Sasha didn't answer immediately. Instead, he offered a shrug, his lips curling into a faint smirk that did little to ease Beom's growing unease. The smirk held a thousand unsaid things—knowledge Sasha wasn't willing to share yet, truths Beom would have to unravel on his own.
Beom scowled. This bastard always does this. Always leaving breadcrumbs and making me piece it together like some damn puzzle. Just say it already—was it Yaroslav or not? His hands tightened around the edge of the desk, his knuckles whitening. If Yaroslav really killed them, then why? Was it part of the plan, or was it just to silence them? Either way, it's twisted.
"Anyways," Sasha interrupted Beom's spiraling thoughts, his tone lightening as he stepped away from the desk, "we have a ball to focus on. This will come later." He waved a hand dismissively, as if the deaths and the creation of the code were minor details in the grand scheme of things.
Beom huffed, leaning back in his chair. "This... family is so confusing," he muttered under his breath, but not quietly enough to escape Sasha's notice.
The word family tasted bitter on Beom's tongue. How could people like this even call themselves a family? They seemed more like a collection of predators circling each other, waiting for the weakest to fall. Yaroslav's father, Mikhail... The mafia. The Seraphim Code... It's all interconnected, like some tangled web I can't make sense of. How does anyone live like this? And why am I getting dragged deeper into it every damn day?
Sasha smirked again, his sharp gaze flicking back to Beom. "You're not wrong," he said, his tone amused. "Confusing doesn't even begin to cover it. But that's what makes them so interesting, don't you think?"
Beom narrowed his eyes at Sasha, irritation bubbling to the surface. Interesting? Is this guy serious? He shook his head, trying to push away his frustration. This isn't some story to be entertained by. This is my life now—our lives. And it's messy as hell.
He looked back at the documents spread out on the desk, his fingers tracing over one of the names. So many lives ruined or lost because of this family and their damn code. And now, here we are, preparing to infiltrate one of their grand parties like we belong there. Beom's chest tightened at the thought of walking into the Vyshnevsky mansion, knowing the kind of danger that awaited them.
Sasha interrupted his thoughts again, this time with a casual stretch, his arms lifting over his head. "Come on, Beom," he said, his voice smooth and teasing. "Don't look so grim. You've got a tuxedo to pick out, and we've got a ball to crash. It's going to be fun."
"Fun," Beom muttered, rolling his eyes as he pushed the papers aside. Yeah, because sneaking into the lion's den is exactly my idea of fun. But deep down, a part of him knew Sasha thrived on this chaos. And if Beom was being honest with himself, maybe he was starting to as well.
Beom shifted uncomfortably on the worn-out couch, still feeling sore and groggy from the blast's aftermath. His hand moved instinctively to his pocket, feeling for something that wasn't there. My phone, he thought, suddenly remembering the last time he had it. Had it been before the explosion? Or maybe he'd dropped it somewhere in the chaos. He couldn't shake the nagging thought—if he had lost it, he'd lose all the memories stored there, pictures, messages, everything. But his voice came out casual when he finally spoke.
"Sasha... when you dressed my sores, did you see my phone?" Beom asked, trying to sound indifferent, though the question held more weight than he let on.
Sasha looked over at him, eyebrows raised as he lit a cigarette, the faint orange glow illuminating his face for a split second before he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "Nope," he replied easily, his mouth pulling into a sly grin as he took another drag. "Why, you miss your girlfriend?" he added with a smirk, smoke curling lazily around his lips.
Beom's face flushed slightly, his fingers fidgeting against his knee as he muttered, "No... I just miss my mom." He looked down, his voice trailing off slightly. "I'm single."
Sasha let out a soft, amused chuckle, clearly savoring Beom's discomfort. "Ahh... mummy's boy, huh?" he teased, blowing smoke rings into the air, each one dissipating slowly in the dimly lit room. The taunt was light, but it stung more than Beom wanted to admit. Sasha was watching him with that knowing glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how he'd react.
Beom clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to snap back. What's wrong with caring about family? Not everyone's heartless, he thought bitterly. But he stayed silent, refusing to rise to Sasha's bait. He knew Sasha would only twist his words around and make fun of him even more.
Sasha's gaze traveled to Beom's neck, lingering on the pendant resting against his collarbone. "Your neck... I mean, the necklace," he said in a musing tone. "Did your mom give that to you too?" There was something curious, almost probing, in his eyes, though his expression remained unreadable.
Beom's fingers instinctively went to the small, worn pendant. The metal was cool beneath his touch, a familiar weight that somehow grounded him. He hesitated for a second, not sure if he wanted to share this piece of his past with someone like Sasha, who probably wouldn't understand. But something in Sasha's gaze made him feel like he had no choice but to answer.
"So curious…" Beom muttered, glancing away. "No, actually," he added quietly, "my dad gave it to me." The admission felt strange, like he was exposing a sliver of himself he'd kept hidden for so long.
Sasha raised an eyebrow, still watching him with that unreadable look. "Your dad, huh?" he murmured, taking another long drag from his cigarette. "Didn't peg you for the sentimental type."
Beom's mind wandered to the memory of his father, the last time he'd seen him, the way he'd given him the necklace with a rare smile, saying it was to 'keep him safe.' That was all he'd said. Just those words. And then he'd been gone. Beom had kept the necklace close ever since, as if it were a part of his father, a reminder that he wasn't entirely alone. But Sasha wouldn't understand that. No one would.
"It's none of your business," Beom said, his tone sharper than he intended, trying to mask the flood of emotions stirring within him. He hated that Sasha could unsettle him so easily, making him feel vulnerable with just a few words. Why does he even care? Beom thought, gripping the necklace a little tighter. He probably just finds it amusing to poke at my past.
But Sasha just chuckled, exhaling another puff of smoke. He didn't press further, instead leaning back, as if satisfied with the answer—or maybe just with the reaction he'd provoked.
Sasha's phone buzzed on the table, breaking the tense silence between them. Beom glanced over as Sasha picked it up, his expression immediately turning serious as he scanned the caller ID. Without a word, Sasha stood up, cigarette still dangling between his lips, and walked toward the adjoining room, phone pressed to his ear. Beom watched him go, his thoughts spiraling in the quiet room.
His fingers absently brushed against the pendant hanging around his neck, a habit he'd picked up whenever he felt anxious or overwhelmed. The day's revelations about the Vyshnevsky family, the mysterious code, and now the mention of Yaroslav still being alive—everything was starting to weigh heavily on him. How could someone survive that? He fell into the water. I kicked him in. I saw it with my own eyes. Beom's jaw tightened, frustration simmering beneath his composed exterior.
The door creaked open, and Sasha stepped back into the room, his signature smirk in place despite the somber air. He let out a long exhale, flicking ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray.
"So, from the news I just got, Merlin didn't survive," Sasha said casually, as if he were discussing the weather.
Beom's shoulders slumped, the news adding another layer to his growing frustration. "Oh," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. He sighed, trying to focus on the positives. "Well, at least we know the Vyshnevsky mansion now. That's… progress, I guess." His voice lacked conviction, more an attempt to reassure himself than Sasha.
Sasha didn't immediately respond, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around his face. He watched Beom with that usual glint in his eye, a mix of amusement and something sharper, something that always made Beom feel as though Sasha saw more than he let on. Then, without warning, Sasha chuckled, breaking the heavy silence.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone