Capítulo 20: Chapter 19
"Why are you closing the curt—" Beom began, his curiosity bubbling up, but Sasha cut him off swiftly, holding up a finger and hushing him with a dismissive yet commanding tone.
"Shh… you ask too many questions," Sasha replied, a faint smirk tracing his lips as he moved over to a small projector sitting on his desk. The room fell silent as he flicked it on, the quiet hum filling the space before an image abruptly projected onto the wall.
Beom's gaze snapped to it, his eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and confusion as the face of an unfamiliar man appeared in sharp detail—a rugged, haunting face with cold, calculating eyes that seemed to bore right through the screen. The figure on the wall was intimidating, his expression set in a harsh, almost unreadable way, sending a chill through Beom as he took it in.
"Uh… who is that?" Beom's voice held a note of uncertainty, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece together what he was seeing. He didn't recognize the face, yet something about it felt vaguely familiar, a figure that lingered like an ominous shadow in whispered stories.
Sasha's eyes gleamed with a knowing look as he folded his arms, taking a step back to give Beom a clearer view. "The one and only Yaroslav Olegovich Vyshnevsky," he replied, his tone dripping with a cunning satisfaction, as though he'd just unveiled a well-kept secret.
Beom's reaction was immediate—his eyes widened in shock, disbelief flashing across his face. "But… how is this possible?" he murmured, voice laced with confusion. "No one knows what he looks like… the files, everything I've seen—they're blank, sealed, covered in rumors. How can you—"
Sasha chuckled, a dark, mocking sound that seemed to fill the room, lingering in the air long after it left his lips. He gave Beom a look that was both amused and condescending, his eyes narrowing as he watched Beom grapple with this revelation.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been on this case?" Sasha responded, his voice soft yet sharp, laced with an underlying arrogance. He reached over to his desk, his fingers curling around a steaming cup of coffee, and took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring it as if he had all the time in the world. "Long before you, Beom. Long before this mission became… 'joint,'" he added, the word laced with a faint sneer, as if the very notion of sharing this mission grated against him.
Beom's mind was spinning, struggling to process everything. Here he was, face-to-face with an image of the infamous Yaroslav—someone he had only heard about in briefings, his name spoken in hushed, fearful tones. The reality of it was unsettling, grounding the danger of their mission in a way he hadn't fully felt until now. And here Sasha was, casually sipping coffee, as if presenting the face of a ghost was a trivial affair, a well-worn routine for him.
Sasha continued, his tone almost teasing, as though relishing Beom's reaction. "Years of groundwork, contacts, layers of information that you could only scratch the surface of, Beom. I know his face, his movements, his habits. I know Yaroslav in ways even he wouldn't expect." His words lingered, carrying a weight that hinted at an unspoken history, a personal depth to this pursuit that Beom hadn't been privy to.
Beom's words hung in the air, his expression riddled with doubt as he questioned Sasha's certainty. "But how sure are you that this is him?" he pressed, his voice edging into skepticism. "He's known to use silicon masks, change his appearance constantly. What if this is just another—"
Before Beom could finish, Sasha interrupted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, each sound deliberate and condescending, like a seasoned teacher humoring a clueless student. His eyes gleamed with amusement, narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as if settling in to enjoy Beom's discomfort.
"Why…" Sasha began, dragging out the word with a taunting, almost patronizing tone. "Do you think I'm not good at my work?" His grin widened, revealing the flash of his teeth. "That I'd present you with just any random picture of some guy?" His voice lilted with feigned innocence, yet the bite of sarcasm was unmistakable. Sasha's gaze bore into Beom, studying his reaction with a gleeful intensity.
Beom's eyes widened at the insinuation, caught off guard by the sharpness in Sasha's words. He stammered for a moment, but before he could muster a response, Sasha continued, leaning forward with an almost predatory look in his eyes.
"Or…" Sasha added, his voice dropping to a lower, more mocking tone as he tilted his head, his grin curling into a sly smirk. "Maybe it just hurts your pride that you weren't the one who figured it out? That after all your preparation, all your training, you were still in the dark about this?"
Beom's jaw clenched, the accusation stinging more than he wanted to admit. Sasha's words hit precisely at the core of his frustration, stirring an uncomfortable sense of inadequacy. He hadn't expected to be caught off-guard like this, and now, here was Sasha—clearly reveling in his discomfort, using each word like a calculated strike to dismantle his confidence.
"What?!" Beom finally managed, his voice coming out sharper than he intended, his surprise flaring into indignation. He shot Sasha a look, his fists clenching slightly as he wrestled with the urge to defend himself.
Sasha merely chuckled, a rich, mocking sound that echoed softly through the room. He leaned back, clearly enjoying the turmoil he had provoked, his grin widening as he took in Beom's flustered expression. "Relax, Beom," he said, his tone lazy, taunting. "I've spent years on this. Every little piece of information, every connection, I've vetted them all, down to the last detail."
He leaned closer, his gaze piercing. "Do you really think I would make a rookie mistake now?" His words held a quiet, menacing edge, the weight of his experience and expertise undeniable. Sasha didn't just want Beom to understand—he wanted him to feel it, to grasp the magnitude of his dedication and skill.
Beom swallowed, his own frustration giving way to a reluctant, simmering respect. As much as he disliked Sasha's tone, he couldn't ignore the reality behind his words. Sasha's years of tracking Yaroslav, his relentless attention to detail, had brought them this far—and despite his pride, Beom knew he couldn't dismiss that. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to hold Sasha's gaze, determined not to let him see the self-doubt lingering in his eyes.
Sasha's smirk softened, just a fraction, as he noted Beom's silent acknowledgment. He took a slow sip of his coffee, savoring the silence that followed, the air heavy with an unspoken understanding. "Good," he murmured finally, almost to himself. "At least you're learning."
Sasha was mid-sentence, his usual air of smug confidence about him, when suddenly a piercing scream echoed through the hallway. The sound was so chilling, so filled with raw terror, that it made both of them freeze for a second, exchanging alarmed glances. Their faces reflected the urgency of the moment, and with a silent understanding, they took off toward the source of the sound.
The hallway was a flurry of panic when they arrived—people were clustered in horrified silence, whispering and casting glances that were both curious and fearful. Beom's heart raced as he pushed his way through the crowd, a sense of dread already settling in his chest. He didn't know what he would find, but a small part of him braced for the worst.
As he reached the front of the group, the grim scene before him confirmed his fears. Lying sprawled on the cold, hard floor was Elena, her body motionless, her once expressive face now void of life. Beom's breath hitched as he took in the ghastly sight: Elena's head was grotesquely angled, with fresh gunshot wounds marring her chest and legs. Blood pooled around her, staining the floor in dark crimson streaks. The sight was horrific, each detail sinking into his mind with brutal clarity.
Beom's stomach twisted. A chill spread through his body, his hands clenching into tight fists as he struggled to process what he was seeing. Just hours ago, he'd seen her alive, vibrant, and determined. Now, that same Elena lay lifeless, stripped of her vitality in an act of cold-blooded violence.
"No... this can't be happening," Beom whispered, a hollow feeling swelling in his chest. His mind was a whirl of thoughts, questions, disbelief. How had it come to this? Who would do something so ruthless?
Beside him, Sasha watched with an eerie calmness, his face devoid of emotion. While the crowd murmured in horror, he remained unfazed, hands shoved casually into his pockets, his stance relaxed. He studied the scene with a detachment that felt almost predatory, his gaze sweeping over Elena's body as though he were assessing an unfortunate but insignificant obstacle.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, he let out a slow, quiet sigh and shook his head. "Such a shame," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying a mix of mock sympathy and casual indifference. To anyone observing, it would seem as though Sasha felt nothing but mild inconvenience at the sight before him, as though death and violence were simply routine parts of his world.
Beom's head snapped toward Sasha, a look of shock and anger flashing in his eyes. How could Sasha be so nonchalant? Elena was dead, murdered in cold blood, and here he was, acting as though this were just another day. The contrast between their reactions was stark: where Beom was horrified, Sasha was unfazed, and where Beom's heart pounded with grief and rage, Sasha's remained steady, calm, even detached.
"Is that all you have to say?" Beom finally managed, his voice taut with frustration and disbelief.
Sasha glanced at him, one eyebrow raised in mild curiosity. He shrugged. "Death is inevitable, especially in our line of work. Get too close to the fire, and you're bound to get burned eventually," he replied, his tone cool and matter-of-fact.
Beom felt a surge of anger rise within him, his hands curling into fists. "She didn't deserve this," he said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking with a mixture of sorrow and fury.
But Sasha's expression remained impassive. He looked away from Beom and back to the body, his gaze cold and calculating. "Deserve has nothing to do with it. In our world, survival is all that matters," he replied, as though delivering a harsh lesson.
For a long moment, Beom stood rooted to the spot, his mind reeling from the profound emptiness he'd glimpsed in Sasha's gaze, an expression devoid of remorse or empathy. It was as if Sasha's soul itself were a void, a hollow chasm where warmth and humanity had been replaced by an unfeeling darkness. The weight of this realization pressed down on him, yet before he could process it further, Sasha excused himself with a nonchalant wave, pulling his phone from his pocket and stepping aside to answer an incoming call.
Beom exhaled, his eyes drifting back to Elena's lifeless form as the police and paramedics swarmed the scene, each working with practiced efficiency yet unable to undo the tragedy already etched into the hallway. Determined to uncover some clue, Beom scanned the surroundings, his sharp gaze flitting across every detail—the blood spatter patterns, the position of her body, the discarded fragments of her belongings scattered in disarray. He was so intent on his search that he almost missed the figure at the far end of the hallway, a shadowed silhouette standing perfectly still, watching him with a haunting, unnerving stillness.
"Weird…" Beom muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes at the distant figure. A flicker of suspicion sparked within him; there was something about the presence that felt wrong, like a dark omen lurking just beyond his reach. He continued his search, trying to keep an eye on the shadowy observer, but the figure's intense, unblinking stare made his skin prickle with unease. He finally resolved to confront whoever it was, his instincts urging him forward, each step deliberate and wary.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder