Khaos

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ronan Volkov
14 years old

The warehouse was cold and unforgiving, much like the man standing in front of me. The concrete floor was stained with years of oil, sweat, and blood—an appropriate backdrop for what my father liked to call 'training'. To me, it was something else entirely.

"Get up," my father barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Again."

I struggled to my feet, my muscles aching from the relentless drills. We had been at it for hours, and every inch of my body felt the burn. But my father didn't care about my pain; he only cared about results. In his eyes, I had to be perfect—ruthless, precise, and unbreakable. Anything less was a failure.

He circled me, his eyes cold and calculating, the same way they'd been since that night when I lost my mother. The warmth I once saw in them was gone, replaced by a hardness that made my blood run cold.

"You either learn to endure or you'll end up just like your mother." He always said. His tone low and dangerous.

He always sounded angry now.

His words were like a slap to the face, but I couldn't show weakness. To him weakness was failure. And I could not be a failure. Ever.

I clenched my jaw, willing the tears to stay buried deep where he couldn't see them. There was no room for emotion here. Not in front of him.

He threw a punch, quick and sharp, aiming for my ribs. I barely managed to block it, the impact sending a jolt of pain through my arm. But I didn't back down. I couldn't afford to.

"Faster," he snapped, stepping back just enough to give me room to attack. "Don't think. Just act."

I lunged forward, trying to catch him off guard, but he was too quick. He sidestepped my punch and landed a blow to my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I stumbled back, gasping for air, but he didn't let up.

"Do you think they'll go easy on you?" he spat, his face twisted with anger. "Do you think they'll show you mercy?"

"No, sir," I managed to say, straightening up despite the pain radiating through my body. I knew what he wanted to hear, and I knew better than to hesitate.

He nodded, though there was no satisfaction in his eyes. "Again."

This time, I moved with more precision, more focus. I ducked under his next punch and aimed for his jaw, but he caught my wrist, twisting it painfully until I dropped to one knee. He was teaching me a lesson, one I'd learned a hundred times over but never seemed to perfect.

"Control your anger," he hissed, his grip tightening until I thought my wrist might snap. "It's the only way you'll survive."

I wanted to be angry with him, but he was doing this for me. So I could stay alive in this harsh world. So that I wouldn't leave him and he wouldn't leave me.

I gritted my teeth, fighting back the urge to scream. My father released me with a shove, and I staggered back, cradling my wrist. He didn't give me time to recover before he was on me again, forcing me to dodge and block with everything I had left.

Each punch, each kick was a reminder of what was at stake. This wasn't just about me; it was about avenging my mother, about taking down the people who had destroyed our lives. My father had drilled that into me from the moment she died. Every day since had been preparation for the war he was waging—a war I had no choice but to fight.

"Enough," he finally said, stepping back and lowering his fists. I dropped my guard, my body trembling from exhaustion and the sheer effort it took to keep standing. But I knew better than to collapse in front of him. He'd see it as weakness, and weakness was unacceptable.