247. DRIFTING APART

247. DRIFTING APART
THEN
Kirill lit a cigarette.
The port was in chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance, the reporters swarmed, cops shoved barricades back while shouting over the static of radios. The sudden Interpol inspection, the shoot-out that had triggered it, the arrests and seizures, and it wasn’t just business anymore. It was a spectacle.
The deal he had agreed with some masked man had now officially gone south. He couldn’t ship the drugs as promised, and whoever had tipped the cops off had done a damn good job. A thousand tons of meth gone. And the whispers were worse, that one of the containers had girls in it, no older than fifteen, some barely five.
He wasn’t a good man. But he’d never touch kids. He’d never even imagine that kind of filth.
The world sucks, he thought.
So does the creepy guy next to him.
Tousled dark hair, blue eyes, tall frame, scars slashing one eyebrow. Calm. Too calm. But there was something… off.
And he wasn’t staring at the cops, or the mess, or even the bodies. He was staring at Kirill’s hands.
Kirill frowned, blew out smoke. What the hell was his problem?
After a long beat, Kirill hesitated, then offered him a cigarette.
The guy ignored it, reached instead for the lighter.
He didn’t even smoke. Just flicked it open. Flame snapped to life. His gaze locked on it, unblinking, like it offended him. Like it mattered too much.
Kirill scratched his jaw, watching him. Creepy bastard must have some fetish with fire. Or maybe he just needed a cigarette and was too proud to ask.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kirill asked finally.
From where they sat, they had a perfect view of the rush, the arrested gangs dragged out in cuffs, criminals scattering like roaches, cops pushing people back, the press screaming questions. Waves crashed against the docks, drowning out curses and gunfire residue.
The guy didn’t react. He was still staring at the lighter like it was a goddamn heirloom.
Kirill jerked his chin toward the gang being hauled away. “You one of them?”
The man did not answer. Just kept flicking the lighter, snapping the flame alive and killing it again, over and over.
Kirill narrowed his eyes. What the hell? A lighter fetish? A pyromaniac? Or just crazy?
He stretched his hand out for it, annoyed. But the guy looked at him like he’d asked for his soul.
Kirill glared. The guy glared back.
The fuck?
“You crazy or something?” Kirill finally snapped.
The man spoke for the first time, voice quiet but cutting.
“I have a job. Wanna do it?”
Kirill snorted. “What’s that? Another bullshit scheme?”
The man turned, eyes lit by the flicker of the flame. “I’m going to ruin this fucking city. Wanna join?”
It's confirmed. This creepy guy is mentally ill.

NOW
"I know it won’t be easy to replace me," Kirill said, his voice rough, eyes fixed on the waves crashing against the dock. "But I’ll find someone good, someone capable enough to stand where I did."
He exhaled, shoulders heavy. "I can’t believe this is ending. When we first started… hell, I thought there would be no end. I thought we’d go on tearing cities apart, get old, and maybe die in the same fight."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. "I always pictured myself settling down with a family someday. But I never thought it’d be you first. And yet, here we are, saying goodbyes and shit. I have to do this. I decided that I’m going to take responsibility for the baby. That means stepping down from this life—"
The metallic click of a lighter cut him off. Zaley flicked it open, the small flame dancing between them.
"You’re being dramatic," he said flatly. "You’re resigning as Layla’s bodyguard, not from me. You’re still my right hand. So quit talking like you’re breaking my heart. It’s pathetic."
He snapped the lighter shut with a sharp clack and finally turned, one brow raised. "And for fuck’s sake, don’t make it sound like Layla was right when she joked we’d end up lovers without her. That’s already disgusting enough to think about. Don’t make it worse."
Kirill dragged a hand down his face, laughing under his breath, though it was rough around the edges. “You know what? I’m happy, Zaley. Happy I don’t have to overwork anymore. No more bloodshot eyes from chasing shadows, no more nights eating cold takeout because we’re buried in evidence. Maybe…” he exhaled, “…maybe I get to sleep like a normal human being for once.”
Zaley leaned back in his chair, smoke curling lazily from his lips. “Don’t act like you weren’t paid handsomely to bleed your eyes out.”
“Still doesn’t change the fact that it’s over,” Kirill said, managing a crooked smile. “No more long nights. No more digging through filth until the truth finally crawled out.”
The words hung between them. Both knew what he meant, but neither wanted to say it—how many nights had been spent side by side, lost in maps, files, screens, chasing monsters like Project Kairo until morning bled through the blinds.
Now, that rhythm was breaking.
Two men who once lived the same nights, now drifting into separate days.
Kirill almost said goodbye as if he wouldn’t walk back into Z Towers the next morning, as if he weren’t going to sit in his usual chair, the second in command he had always been.
Almost.
Zaley’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Find someone for me. His name is Lucifer. He is one of the men at Veyrith.”
Kirill let out something between a scoff and a weary sigh. “Lucifer? Really? You want me to track down a fairy tale?” His tone sharpened, “Only two people escaped from Veyrith that night. A nine-year-old boy and a trainer. If there’s a Lucifer in the mix, my bet’s on the older one.”
Zaley shook his head, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, his expression unreadable. “No. I bet it’s the kid. Find him. Sponsor him. Make his life a living heaven—”
“You mean hell?” Kirill cut him dryly, narrowing his eyes.
“Heaven,” Zaley retorted without hesitation, his voice steel. “And when he comes for me to extract revenge, I want him to know his entire life was my charity.”
For a moment, the sound of the crashing waves filled the silence between them. Kirill studied him, trying to decide if this was cruelty or twisted mercy. With Zaley, it was always hard to tell.
"Are you going to miss the thrill of our old life?" Kirill asked him. "Even Remi resigned to spend time with his grandchildren."
For the briefest second, something unreadable flickered in Zaley’s eyes, an echo of a man who had once thrived in chaos. Then it was gone, replaced by a faint, crooked smile.
“Why would I miss my old life?” he said, voice almost too casual. “I’m glad none of you will be interrupting my time with my girl anymore. No more plans for treasure hunts. No more midnight calls. Just peace.”
That's when Kirill realised this bastard is waiting for the day everyone would resign.