The Reykjavik night swallows my tires as my car slips into the shadows behind his.
I'm not following a man— I'm following a myth.
No address. No license plate. No public records.
Yet his movements are deliberate... like he wants to be followed.
Through narrow alleys. Frozen bridges. Past sleeping buildings that would whisper warnings if they could. He’s luring me in deeper—not to test my skills...
But MY limits!
Finally, his car stops.
Old industrial district.
Abandoned factory. Rust. Steel. Silence.
No one in their right mind comes here.
And still—My breath doesn’t shake.
I step out.
A door creaks open ahead of me
No footsteps. No voice.
Just a single dim light flickering from inside.
A message painted across the metal wall in blood-red ink:
“Welcome to your own diagnosis, Doctor.”
From behind a rusted pillar—he speaks.
Rafael Drakov
“You followed me...
That wasn’t very professional, Misha.”
He steps into the light.
Dark shirt. Sleeves rolled. Blood on his knuckles.
Rafael Drakov
So tell me, sweetheart...
Ready to treat your most dangerous patient yet?
Or are you just hoping I’ll break you in the process?”
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