Day 7
_POV KIRA_
Monday, 06, 5 AM.
Nash's villa, perched in the Italian hills, stands out in this almost perfect silence. A jewel of glass and concrete that seems to be sleeping, far from the noise of the city. A family legacy, a refuge, a place where time seems to stand still.
We are gathered around the marble table, the tea barely warm, our breaths a little heavy. Tired, yet light, after the party that lingers in the folds of my clothes and in the scent of my hair.
The night has been long, but the adrenaline from the party keeps us awake, even if our eyes betray our fatigue.
Then, I hear a noise, a shot. A sharp sound escapes in the distance, then another, closer, more urgent. My heart races. I calmly set my cup down, but the anxiety rises within me.
- They're back, I say, my voice low and urgent.
Nashtia looks up, her eyes heavy; she must be sleepy. She seems ready, but I know she's just as nervous as I am. I hand her my Glock; she takes it without a word, her gaze determined. Russia has impacted her; she knows what it means to fight for survival.
I grab a knife from the cheese platter, simple but effective. We split up; she heads upstairs while I search the lower level of the villa, each step echoing in the heavy silence.
The sounds outside grow louder—screams, gunfire, moans. I move deeper into the living room corridor, the walls straight and smooth, everything feels cold. The black bay windows swallow the first light of dawn, making the atmosphere even more oppressive.
Then, a man appears. He's masked, tall, frozen, gripping a knife in his hand. He doesn't move; he doesn't seem rushed.
Neither do I.
We lock eyes, circling, sizing each other up in this living room that feels too calm for the chaos raging outside. The floor is slick, the furniture modern, the light cold and sterile. Everything seems unreal, as if time has stopped.
I launch my attack, muscles tense, breath short. He blocks, counters, and we clash. Our blades sing, strike, glide.
He is incredibly fast, deadly precise, but he doesn't aim to kill me. No, he seeks to exhaust me, to touch my arms, my footing.
I move, I dance with him, but I feel fatigue creeping in. I'm so tired; I can't concentrate on the fight. Maybe it's because he doesn't exude the aura of a killer here to end me. He has something different, something that troubles me.
Lost in my thoughts, he seizes my wrist with his left hand for a fraction of a second; his grip is icy. I break free with a sharp jerk, but it's a bad idea. I feel my ankle crack.
Damn, that stings.
- You're fast, I whisper, a bit crazed and in pain.
He charges again, more aggressively. His blade slices my hand, not deep, but enough for my knife to fall and my blood to flow, warm and vivid.
I watch the red liquid escape from my hand, a part of me slipping away.
He pauses, analyzing me. I swear I saw his eyes smile for a moment, a disturbed, almost amused smile.
It's unsettling.
He slowly retreats, never breaking eye contact, as if he's enjoying himself. Then, gently, he passes through the door, not running. Simply, as if he knows I won't chase him.
I stand there, breathless, processing his absence. A few seconds weigh a ton.
- Unfair fight, I admit aloud. Plus, he's very calculated.
I lower my gaze; my ankle screams in pain. Two injuries: an open hand bleeding, a ruined ankle.
And yet… damn, he's beautiful.
I limp back to Nashtia, resting my hand on her shoulder, seeking support.
- Our men are almost done too, she tells me, calm but tense.
The chaos outside is winding down; our guys are breathing, they seem to be doing well. But that damn fight, the one with that guy, lingers in my mind, brutal yet tender.
Etched raw.
I breathe heavily in this silent living room, a mute witness to the duel. Time seems suspended, as if the house is holding its breath. The pain burns in my ankle and on my hand.
The memory remains.
I straighten up, alert. Why did he come? What does he really want?
I fix my gaze on the door through which he vanished, a nervous smile splitting my lips. This is the second attack this week.
I wonder what he thinks, what he wants. Is he here for me, haunted by a deep hatred? Does he feel alive to destroy me, or does he feel empty? I don't know.
All I know is that this fight, this encounter, marks me.
I turn to Nashtia, seeking a bit of comfort.
- Do you think we'll hear anything? I ask, fixing her calm demeanor.
She nods, but I see the worry in her eyes.
- We need to stay alert. It's not over, she whispers, helping me sit down.
I know she's right; the night has been long, but the danger isn't gone. I still feel the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, but fatigue is starting to catch up with me.
- We should rest a bit, I say, but I know it's not easy.
Nashtia agrees, but I can see she's also on edge.
- Alright, I'll activate the alarm.
I sit on the couch, my gaze lost in the void. I think back to that man, to his disturbed smile, to his blue eyes. Why can't I forget him? Why do I feel this mix of fear and admiration?
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to chase those thoughts away. But they return, like an echo. I wonder if I'll see him again. If this fight was just a prelude to something bigger.
Something more open; I'd like to hear his voice.
The villa is quiet, but I know the calm is deceptive; I must stay strong—for myself, for Nashtia, for all those who count on us.
I cast one last glance at the door through which he left. Maybe it's not over. Maybe this is just the beginning.
It was a pleasure to meet you, my equal.
---
Thank you for reading!!!
Vote, share, comment!!!