Chapter 2: The Collection Obsession
The air in Zykin’s office was a still, spent thing. Cigar smoke hung in visible layers, caught in the blue glow of the surveillance monitors that lined one wall. A silent, shifting mosaic of city life played across them—a traffic intersection, the quiet back door of a nightclub, an empty warehouse lot. His focus, however, was on the physical prints littering the wide, scarred surface of his desk. They were artifacts, more precious than any ledger.
Anton had delivered them two hours ago. A fat, unmarked envelope. Inside, a chronology of Yong-Jin’s week.
Zykin sorted them with the care of an archivist. Yong-Jin buying a stale sandwich from a kiosk. Yong-Jin hauling a tire across the garage forecourt, breath steaming. Yong-Jin talking animatedly with his friend, the one with the red beanie. That one made Zykin’s thumb stroke the edge of the photo. The laugh was almost visible.
Then he found the one Anton must have taken just that afternoon.
Yong-Jin was bent under the hood of a battered Lada, his jumpsuit unzipped to the waist and tied around his middle. The white tank underneath was streaked with grey. His torso was a landscape of lean muscle and tendon, a faint sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the weak winter sun filtering through a dirty window. One hand was braced on the fender, the other buried in the engine’s guts. His head was turned slightly, profile sharp, lips parted in concentration.
Zykin went very still.
He picked up the print, holding it by its edges. The background blurred into nothing. He saw only the line of Yong-Jin’s throat, the hollow of his collarbone, the dark shadow of hair on his chest leading down. His own breathing felt too loud in the quiet room. The hum of the servers in the next room faded to a distant buzz.
His fingertip, rough and calloused, drifted over the glossy surface. It traced the path of a grease smear on Yong-Jin’s shoulder. He imagined the warmth of the skin beneath, the pulse he could nearly see at the base of that throat. A possessive, hungry tremor started deep in his gut. This wasn’t just watching anymore. This was a violation, intimate and deliberate, and the shame of it was drowned out by a wave of pure, dizzying want.
He didn’t hear the door open.
“He’s clean,” Anton’s voice cut through the silence, flat and tired. He stood by the door, a hulking shadow refusing to come closer. “As far as I can see. No debts. No side deals. Works, goes home, drinks with the two guys from the shop. Saw a movie last Friday. Romantic comedy.” He said the last words like a diagnosis.
Zykin didn’t look up. His thumb settled over the image of Yong-Jin’s sternum, covering his heart. “What does he drink?”
“At the bar? Local lager. Cheap. At the coffee cart? Black, two sugars.”
“The friend. The one with the red hat.”
“Park Seo-jun. Cousin. Also clean.”
“He lives above the garage.”
“Yes. The building is owned by an old Armenian who doesn’t ask questions. Rent is paid on time.”
Finally, Zykin lowered the photograph, placing it carefully at the center of the desk. He looked at Anton. The cold, assessing glint had returned to his green eyes, but underneath it was a feverish intensity. “What does he need?”
Anton blinked. “Need?”
“Everyone needs something. Money? Security? A problem removed? What does he need?”
“He needs his timing belt fixed,” Anton grunted, a sliver of his frustration showing. “Vlad, listen to yourself. You’re talking about him like he’s a territory to acquire. He’s a person. A normal one.”
“Normal,” Zykin repeated, tasting the word. It was bland. Meaningless. There was nothing normal about the way this man’s image calmed the storm in his head. He gestured to the monitors, to the world of violence and transaction they represented. “This is normal? What I did to Ilya in the alley, that was normal? My face, Anton. Is that normal?” His voice was low, dangerous. “He looked at this,” he pointed to his scarred face, “and smiled. He called my car a piece of shit. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t flinch. That is not normal. That is a miracle.”
Anton’s jaw tightened. He knew that tone. It was the same one Zykin used before burning a rival’s business to the ground. Absolute, unwavering certainty. “What’s the play, then? You can’t just walk in and claim him. He’s not a necklace.”
Zykin leaned back in his chair, the old leather groaning. He steepled his fingers, his gaze drifting back to the photograph. The unlit candle on his desk, its wax pooled and frozen, caught the light from a monitor. It looked like a golden, molten tear.
“He will need something,” Zykin said slowly, the plan coalescing in his mind as he spoke. “And I will be the one to provide it. Create the need if you have to. But make it… elegant. Something he cannot fix himself.”
Anton let out a long, heavy breath. He recognized a direct order when he heard one. The skepticism in his eyes didn’t fade, but the loyalty won. “And after we provide? What then?”
A slow, quiet smile touched Zykin’s lips, the scar twisting its shape into something predatory. He picked up the photograph of Yong-Jin under the hood again, his touch almost reverent.
“Then,” he said softly, “he says thank you.”