The sharp click of polished shoes echoed against the marble floors, each step measured, deliberate, like the rhythm of a war drum before battle. The corridor stretched long and regal, carved into the very bones of a Victorian-era fortress. Ornate gold trim framed towering oil paintings that stared down with eyes long dead, their judgment eternal.
Hazel eyes gleamed from beneath a mess of dark brown hair as the man strode forward, the soft sway of his Russian fur coat adding gravitas to his approach. Beneath the coat, a sleek black tux hugged his frame—tailored for elegance, yet tempered by the cold kiss of the Russian winter.
A row of maids in crisp uniforms lined the walls of the hallway, their heads bowed, afraid to meet his gaze. The hallway's opulence bore resemblance to the Sistine Chapel, with arched ceilings painted in celestial glory and chandeliers casting fractured rainbows across the floor. All of it led to a single door at the end.
Just as he reached it, a nurse stepped forward, her eyes wary but her stance firm.
"Он не в состоянии, чтобы принимать гостей," she warned. (He's not in a state to receive visitors.)
The man merely smirked, his lips curling with restrained amusement as he leaned closer, his voice a low whisper laced with ice.
"Те, кто умирают, сокрыты в гробу из ветра." (Those that die are set in a wind coffin.)
The nurse paled, breath catching in her throat. She stepped aside with haste, motioning for the maids to follow. They scattered down the hallway, heels clicking in retreat.
The man sighed, unimpressed. He pushed open the towering door with a single hand.
The room was cavernous—vaulted ceilings, walls covered in ancient tapestries, and a cold stone hearth that glowed with dying embers. In the center lay an enormous canopy bed, fit for royalty. Monitors blinked and beeped, measuring the weak vitals of the man who lay unconscious beneath tangled sheets.
The pale face beneath the oxygen mask was nearly ghostly. Lips cracked. Skin clammy. Long silver hair splayed over the pillow like frost on marble.
Elion Rhane stepped closer, brushing a gloved hand against the edge of the sheets. With delicate care, he picked up the old brush from the bedside table and began untangling the silver strands.
"Still hopeless at self-care, I see," he murmured.
Once the top was done, he moved to the end of the bed, continuing the rhythmic strokes. He paused when he pulled the brush back and found it filled with a nest of hair.
"You're balding," he muttered with mock offense.
He placed the brush down, then turned to the bedframe where a sleek black briefcase waited. He unlocked it, flipping it open with a series of precise motions. The interior was filled with strange tools, documents, and what appeared to be a folded transportation sling.
"If you're done hibernating, you can wake up now and come back to work," he said aloud, rummaging through the contents. He sighed, exasperated. "You know you're too heavy to carry, which is why I brought this transportation device. But you'd be doing me a huge favor by getting your grown a—"
His words cut short. From the corner of his eye, a silhouette moved.
Elion spun just in time to see a figure limping toward the balcony. With a burst of movement, he lunged forward.
Just as the man threw himself at the edge, Elion swept a leg beneath him, knocking him flat. The impact was harsh, echoing through the room as the would-be escapee groaned.
With fluid precision, Elion pinned him down, knee pressed to the back and arms restrained.
"You know," he said with a dry scoff, "I could just kill you, Lieutenant Elion Rhane."
The voice was as tired as it was familiar.
"And that would mean a lot of paperwork," Elion replied, smirking as he stood and offered a hand.
It was promptly smacked away.
Much to his amusement.
"And what do you mean I'm balding?!" the bedridden man snapped, bolting back into the room.
He stormed to the bedside table, inspecting the brush like it held secrets of ancient betrayal.
"That damn maid! I should have her head!"
Elion leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the dramatic meltdown with pure delight.
"If you're done mourning your hairline, can we leave? I've had it with this ice den."
"You can leave," came the snarky reply. "I'm still in a coma, and your voice is bothering me."
"You'll get double pay."
There was a pause. Then, without a word, the bedridden man stood upright and walked toward the door, raking a hand through what remained of his hair.
"Well then," he muttered, "wouldn't want to be late on my first day back."
Elion followed, shaking his head.
"Fucking thief."
The door slammed behind them, echoing like a gunshot across the ancient stone walls.