Made for crime

The Cost of Betrayal

The room was dimly lit, a single overhead bulb flickering occasionally, casting long shadows on the cold concrete floor. It was quiet—too quiet for what was about to happen. I stood in the center of the room, rolling the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows, slowly, deliberately. The sound of the leather straps on the table behind me was the only reminder of what was coming.
Across from me, slumped in a metal chair, was Viktor. Blood had already dried on his split lip, and his left eye was swollen shut. His breathing was labored, his shirt sticking to him with sweat and fear. He didn't meet my eyes—he knew better than that.

"Ты сделал свою ошибку, Виктор." My voice was low, calm. But the menace underneath it was unmistakable. *You made your mistake, Viktor.*

He didn't respond at first, just let out a ragged breath that sounded more like a wheeze. He was scared. I could feel it radiating off him like the stench of sweat and blood that filled the room. I could almost taste it—fear had a way of hanging in the air, thick and suffocating.I walked over to the table, where I'd carefully laid out the tools earlier. Knives, pliers, a blowtorch. Simple instruments for very specific outcomes. I didn't rush. There was no point. The night was young, and Viktor had a long way to go before this was over.

"Ты знаешь, почему ты здесь, да?" I asked, picking up a small knife, its blade gleaming in the dim light. *You know why you're here, right?*

Finally, he looked up at me, his one good eye wide with terror. He was shaking now, and I could see him trying to force his body to remain still, to hold on to some shred of composure. But it wouldn't last. They always broke eventually.

"Пожалуйста, Kai..." His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. *Please, Kai...*

"Пожалуйста?" I repeated, my tone mocking as I twirled the knife between my fingers. "Теперь ты хочешь, чтобы я был милым? После того, как ты сдал информацию о Братве?" *Please? Now you want me to be kind? After you gave up information on the Bratva?*

I moved closer, crouching down in front of him, the knife resting lightly in my hand. His eyes darted to the blade, and I could see the panic rising in him, the realization of what was about to happen finally settling in. His breathing grew more erratic, the fear he was trying to contain slipping out in shallow gasps.

"I didn't mean—" he started, but I silenced him with a sharp movement, the knife slicing across his cheek, just enough to draw blood. He gasped, recoiling, but the ropes holding him to the chair didn't give him much room to move.

"You didn't mean?" I hissed, my voice deadly quiet. "Ты думаешь, что это не имеет значения, потому что ты *не хотел*?" *You think it doesn't matter because you didn't mean to?*

I stood up, wiping the blade off on my sleeve with deliberate care. "The information you leaked," I continued, my tone casual now, as if we were having a normal conversation, "cost us two men. They're dead because of you."

His head dropped, and I saw his shoulders shake slightly. I wondered if he was crying, but I didn't care enough to check. Apologies wouldn't bring back what he'd given away. They wouldn't fix what had already been done.

"You made a choice, Viktor," I said, circling him slowly, the knife tapping lightly against my palm. "And now you'll pay for it."

I moved behind him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back, forcing him to look at the ceiling. His mouth opened, a gasp escaping his throat, but no words came out. He was trembling now, the fear completely taking over.

I brought the knife to his throat, the cold metal resting against his skin. He froze, his breath catching in his chest. For a moment, the room was completely still, the only sound the faint flicker of the overhead light.

"Ты знаешь, что мне нравится в ножах?" I asked, my voice low in his ear. *Do you know what I like about knives?*

He didn't answer, of course, couldn't. So I continued, my voice smooth, almost conversational. "Они медленные. Ты чувствуешь каждый порез. Ты чувствуешь, как боль нарастает, медленно." *They're slow. You feel every cut. You feel the pain build, slowly.*

With that, I dragged the knife down his arm, pressing just hard enough to break the skin. Blood welled up immediately, dark and thick, and Viktor let out a strangled cry, jerking against the ropes.

"Shh," I whispered, almost soothing. "We're just getting started."

I moved back to the table, putting the knife down and picking up the pliers. Viktor's one good eye widened in panic when he saw them, and he struggled against the ropes again, the chair scraping against the floor. It was pathetic, really, watching him try to escape when we both knew there was nowhere for him to go.

I knelt in front of him again, grabbing his hand roughly and holding it up to inspect. His fingers twitched, trying to pull away, but I tightened my grip. "You gave them our routes," I said, my voice cold. "You gave them the names of our men."

I took his index finger in the pliers and squeezed. The bone shattered with a sickening crack, and Viktor screamed, his body convulsing in the chair. I didn't stop. I moved to the next finger, then the next, each one breaking with the same precise motion, each one met with a scream that echoed through the small room.

By the time I was done, his hand was mangled, the fingers bent at unnatural angles, blood pooling on the floor beneath us. Viktor was sobbing now, his body slumped forward as much as the ropes would allow.

I stood up, wiping my hands on a rag as I walked back to the table, calm and collected, as if this were just another day at the office. The knife, the pliers, the tools—they were all just instruments. Tools for reminding people like Viktor that betrayal had a price. And in the Bratva, that price was always paid in blood.

"You should've known better," I said, turning to face him once more. "You don't betray the Bratva and walk away."

He didn't respond. His head hung low, his body shaking, but I knew he was still conscious, still aware of every second of his agony. That was the point, after all.

I stepped closer, grabbing his chin roughly and forcing his head up. His eyes were glazed over, barely focusing on me, but I wanted him to hear this. "This is just the beginning, Viktor. What happens next... well, that depends on how much you beg."

I let go of his face, letting his head fall forward again. I wasn't finished with him yet, not by a long shot. But I wasn't in a rush. There was still plenty of time.

"Добро пожаловать в ад," I muttered as I walked toward the door, the sound of Viktor's ragged breathing following me. *Welcome to hell.*

Tonight, he would learn what it meant to cross the Bratva.