The man was gone.
But his words lingered.
Zoya sat on the thin mattress, staring at the white wall, fingers curling absently into the fabric of her hospital gown. Something was missing. No, not missing—taken. The memories were there, just out of reach, scattered like shards of a broken mirror. She could almost see them—almost.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
The flickering neon light above her head. The cold, metallic taste in her mouth. A voice, muffled and distant. Zoya… run.
Her eyes snapped open.
Nothing.
She sucked in a breath, her chest tightening.
Why was he helping her?
She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to push out the static humming inside her skull. He knew things. About her. About Rayan. His name alone sent a sharp pang through her ribs. She knew him. She knew what happened to him—didn't she?
Zoya swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet pressing against the cold tile floor. The routine was always the same. Breakfast. Meds. Crafts. Then back to the room. Rinse and repeat. But today, she felt… different.
She needed answers.
And he was the only one who had them.
The room smelled like paint and glue. Patients sat at wooden tables, some sculpting, some cutting out magazine clippings for collages. Zoya picked up a pencil, barely acknowledging the nurse watching her from the corner of the room. Her fingers moved before she could think.
Lines formed. The rough sketch of a man.
Leaning against a wall.
A cigarette between his fingers.
Smoke curling around his face.
She dropped the pencil, staring at the drawing. It was him.
The air around her shifted. The lights flickered. Someone giggled behind her, but when she turned, the girl was hunched over, scribbling nonsense onto a page.
Zoya turned back to the nurse.
"I need to see him."
The nurse blinked. "Who?"
Her grip tightened around the paper. "The man. He was here."
"There's no one like that here, Zoya."
Liar.
Zoya's chest rose and fell, her pulse pounding in her ears. They knew. Of course, they knew. They just didn't want to say it.
"Call him."
The nurse's smile didn't falter. "Call who?"
Her breath came out sharp. "Him." She slammed her fist onto the table. "The man who was in my room! The one who knows things!"
Several patients looked up, eyes glassy with sedation. The nurse placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, her voice softer now. "Zoya, I think you should—"
Zoya shot up from her seat, sending the chair scraping against the floor.
"You're lying to me."
"Sit down."
"Call him!" Her voice cracked. She grabbed the nearest glass of water and hurled it across the room, shattering it against the wall. "CALL HIM!"
The orderlies were already moving. Hands grabbed her arms. Zoya thrashed, her vision swimming as her own screams tore through the air.
"He was here!"
A needle jabbed into her skin. The world blurred. Voices distorted, melting into nothing but a deep, dull hum.
She hit the floor.
Darkness.
Zoya's head pounded, her body stiff with tension as she stared at the man sitting across from her. He looked infuriatingly amused, lounging back in his chair, cigarette lazily balanced between his fingers, as if he had all the time in the world.
"You begged me to talk," he mused, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "And now you look like you're about to start a war."
"Just tell me," she snapped, the edge in her voice barely contained. "I don't have time for your games."
His lips twitched, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Oh, sweetheart. We have all the time in the world."
Zoya clenched her fists. "I don't—"
"Slow down," he cut her off, tilting his head. "This story is long. Very long. And if you want every detail, you're going to have to be patient."
She ground her teeth, fighting the urge to throw something at him.
"Good girl," he murmured, smirking at her frustration. "Now, where do I begin?"
He took another slow drag of his cigarette before finally speaking.
"This story starts with a man," he said smoothly. "A man who thought he could outsmart the devil. He was greedy, reckless, and worst of all—he owed money."
Zoya's heart pounded.
"A lot of money," he continued. "More than he could ever pay back. And the man he owed?" He chuckled, tapping ash into the tray. "Let's just say he wasn't the forgiving type."
Zoya already knew. Her father.
"The debtor panicked. He tried to run. Thought he could escape." The man let out a low laugh. "But the thing about debts? They don't disappear just because you do."
Her breath shallowed.
"So, the devil did what devils do." He flicked his cigarette, watching the embers glow. "He took something else in return. The man's son."
Zoya's chest tightened.
"But here's where it gets interesting," he murmured. "Because the devil didn't come up with that idea on his own. Someone suggested it."
Her pulse jumped. "Who?"
His smirk was slow, deliberate. "A certain young man, ambitious and sharp-eyed. He noticed something… curious."
Zoya didn't move, barely breathed.
"He noticed that the devil's daughter—" he paused, savoring the moment— "had a rather inconvenient little crush."
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
"And so," he continued, voice dripping with amusement, "he made a deal of his own. 'Why chase the coward when we can take his son instead?' And just like that—Rayan was handed over."
Zoya's breath came too fast. No.
She had heard it from Eva. The whispers. The warnings. The rumors that Rayan was taken by the Mafia . She had pieced it together before she had even seen him.
"The girl," the man mused, watching her closely, "had no idea at first. But fate is a funny thing, isn't it? Because one day, she stumbled upon him."
Zoya's vision blurred.
"Cold. Broken. Chained like an animal in her own home."
She remembered. The dampness of the basement. The rusted chains. The way his hollow eyes had met hers, too lifeless to even look surprised.
"And what did our little princess do?" the man drawled. "Did she scream? Did she run? No…" His smirk widened. "She did something even dumber."
Zoya couldn't speak.
"She decided to save him."
A lump formed in her throat.
"But, of course," he sighed, "she couldn't do it alone. She needed help. And who did she turn to?" He gave her a knowing look.
Her stomach twisted.
The same man she hated with every ounce of her being, he whispered. "She offered him something he'd been waiting for. Watching her for years, hoping, praying she would be his."
Zoya felt sick.
"She told him she would announce their engagement publicly. A fair trade, don't you think?"
Her nails dug into her skin.
"And the fool?" He chuckled. "Oh, he believed her. Thought he finally had her." His voice dropped. "So he did what she asked. He got the boy out."
Zoya's heartbeat pounded in her ears.
"But here's the real tragedy," the man murmured, flicking away the last of his cigarette. "She thought she won. She thought she saved him." He leaned forward, eyes dark. "She didn't."
Her breath caught.
"She never realized," he whispered, "that the moment she made that deal… he stopped being hers."
The words struck like a blade.
She stared at him, her body cold, her mind reeling.
"That's enough for tonight," he murmured, standing.
"No," she rasped. "You don't get to stop now."
His smirk returned, slower this time. "Oh, but I do."
She moved before she could think, grabbing his wrist. "Tell me everything."
His gaze flickered down to her hand.
"You're desperate," he murmured. "I like that."
"Tell me," she breathed.
He chuckled, twisting free from her grip. "Patience, sweetheart," he whispered, voice a promise of ruin.
"This is just the beginning."