God and Ghosts

The scent of old wood and candle wax clung to the air, soft and heavy like a lullaby.

Sabrina Petrova knelt in the pew, head bowed, hands clasped. The chapel was nearly empty—just her, a priest whispering Latin somewhere behind the altar, and the cracked silence of God.

Her lips didn’t move, but her mind screamed the same prayer it had whispered every morning for the past seven years.

"Let me find him. Let me end this. Let me have justice, even if it damns me."

A single candle flickered beside the crucifix. Her eyes stayed fixed on it, unblinking.

"I’m sorry, God. But I’m not here to forgive. I’m here to hunt."

She stood slowly, tucking her hair behind her ear and walking out with the grace of a woman who looked like she believed in mercy—because that’s who Sabrina Petrova had to be.

Outside, the city buzzed like static. Cool wind nipped at her collar as she crossed the stone steps, heels clicking against marble.

A man leaned against the far wall in black—hood up, arms crossed, chewing the edge of a toothpick. He was all shadows and secrets.

“Zephyre,” she said, barely glancing his way.

“You pray too long,” he muttered, handing her a sealed envelope. “Next time God can wait.”

She took it without flinching. Unfolded. Read.

The name stopped her heart for a breath.

Valen Antonov.

She said it aloud, tasting each syllable like venom.

“Valen Antonov,” she repeated, quieter this time. Not as a name. As a promise.

She tucked the file beneath her coat, eyes locked on the skyline like it might lead her to him.

I can do anything to kill this man.

Even if it means becoming the very monster he was.

THE SCENE SHIFTS

The room was glass, concrete, and tension.

Valen Antonov sat at the head of the obsidian conference table, fingers steepled, tailored suit sharp enough to slice silence. The city's skyline sprawled behind him like a kingdom he barely cared to rule.

His CFO was speaking. Something about quarterly projections and the security firm they were absorbing next quarter. He wasn’t listening.

Numbers never lied, but people did. And Valen had learned long ago to read the pauses between words more than the words themselves.

And then—he sneezed.

Once. Sharp. Out of nowhere.

He blinked, slightly thrown. His team paused.

“Bless you,” said Mira, his assistant, wide-eyed. No one dared follow.

Valen waved it off with a flick of his wrist. “Someone must be talking about me.”

His voice was low, amused, velvet-wrapped steel.

But beneath the cool exterior, something twisted in his chest. A twinge—not pain exactly, but a ripple. Like something was off-balance in the air.

Unseen, unnamed… but coming.

He sat back, one brow lifting, eyes narrowed. That strange pull buzzed under his skin like static.

“Send me the files,” he said curtly, already done with the meeting in his mind.

When the room emptied, he stayed behind. Alone. Restless.

He stood and walked to the window, looking out over Moscow’s steel spine, his reflection ghosted in the glass.

Someone had said his name.

And whoever it was, he could already feel it

—

It would be a problem.

And he was starting to hope it'd be worth it.

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