Chapter 35: The Weight She Chooses to Carry
**(8 DAYS UNTIL RAGNAK'S DECISION)**
The hotel room smelled of bleach and jasmine air freshener, the kind sprayed too liberally to mask something worse. Beatriz stood by the window, her fingers tracing the stiff linen curtains. Outside, Lisbon’s skyline pulsed with neon—red from the pharmacy sign across the street, blue from a police siren slicing through the night.
Ragnak entered without sound. The door clicked shut behind him, the bolt sliding into place like a scalpel slipping into its sheath.
Beatriz didn’t turn. She knew he was there. His presence pressed against the back of her neck, cold and precise.
"What are you willing to do to be chosen?" His voice was sterile, devoid of inflection.
She exhaled, watching her breath fog the glass. "Whatever’s necessary."
"Define necessary."
Beatriz finally faced him. He stood motionless near the bed, his black coat blending into the shadows. His gloves were off, his hands bare—long, surgeon’s fingers, the kind that could dismantle a body without leaving a mark.
She met his gaze. "I’ve pronounced fourteen people dead this week. Watched families crumple. Held a mother’s hand while she screamed into my scrubs." Beatriz’s voice didn’t waver. "Necessary is what keeps the rest breathing."
Ragnak’s eyes flickered—not empathy, just assessment. "Answer the following questions."
The bedside lamp cast his face in sharp relief, carving hollows beneath his cheekbones. Beatriz braced.
"Would you steal?"
"Yes." No hesitation. She’d stolen morphine last winter for a terminal patient whose insurance ran out.
"Would you deceive?"
Her lips thinned. "Daily." The hospital board still didn’t know about the falsified reports Bruno had leaked to her.
Ragnak stepped closer. The mattress didn’t creak. "Would you get naked in front of me?"
Beatriz’s pulse jumped, but her hands were steady as she reached for the hem of her sweater. The fabric whispered over her head, catching briefly on her watch. Her bra followed—plain, practical cotton. She unbuckled her slacks, let them pool at her feet.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, clinging to her skin even after her shift.
Ragnak’s gaze was clinical, sweeping from her collarbones to her hips. "Would you suck my dick?"
Beatriz’s thighs tensed. She thought of the morgue, the way João’s planner had detailed her movements. The way bodies stiffened when the cold seeped in.
She sank to her knees. The carpet prickled against her bare skin.
Ragnak unzipped his pants. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed. He didn’t touch himself, just let her look.
Beatriz leaned forward, her breath warm against his length. She licked a slow stripe from base to tip, tasting salt and iron. Then she took him into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked him deeper.
His fingers tangled in her hair—not guiding, not forcing, just *there*, a silent reminder of control.
She worked him with her tongue, her lips stretched tight. Saliva dripped down her chin.
Ragnak’s breathing remained even. No groans, no thrusts. Just the wet sounds of her mouth and the distant wail of sirens.
"Enough." He pulled her hair back gently.
Beatriz released him with a gasp. Her lips tingled.
Ragnak tilted her chin up. "Would you let me fuck you?"
The question hung between them, raw and unfiltered.
Beatriz stood, her legs steady. "Yes."
He turned her toward the bed, his hands cool against her waist. She bent over the edge, the stiff duvet scratching her stomach.
Ragnak spit into his palm, slicked himself, then pressed against her entrance.
No preamble. No tenderness.
He pushed in.
Beatriz gasped as he filled her, thick and unyielding. Her fingers twisted in the sheets.
Ragnak fucked her with the same precision he did everything—measured, relentless, adjusting his angle until she shuddered. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above her ass.
The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm. Beatriz’s breaths came short and sharp.
"Would you be my little bitch if I asked you to?" His voice was calm, almost conversational.
Beatriz’s nails tore the sheet. "Yes."
Ragnak snapped his hips harder, driving her forward. The bedframe screeched.
She came with a choked cry, her body clenching around him. He followed seconds later, his release spilling inside her—hot, impersonal.
He withdrew without a word.
Beatriz collapsed onto the bed, her skin damp with sweat. The neon glow from the window painted her thighs in streaks of red and blue.
Ragnak fastened his pants, his movements exact. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "Now I know you better."
Beatriz rolled onto her back, stared at the water-stained ceiling. The sirens had faded. The city hummed below them, indifferent.
Eight days remained.
Ragnak was gone before her breathing steadied.
The door clicked shut.
Somewhere down the hall, an elevator dinged.
Beatriz dragged herself upright, her legs trembling. She reached for her scrubs, her fingers brushing the stolen planner tucked beneath them.
João’s handwriting stared back at her. *Contingency: Beatriz’s loyalty.*
She traced the words, her nail splitting the paper.
Outside, the pharmacy sign flickered.
The night stretched on, vast and hollow and impossibly bright.
=====
The night stretched on, vast and hollow and impossibly bright.
Julieta found Ragnak in the hotel's abandoned laundry room, surrounded by the chemical stench of industrial detergent and mildew. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering across his gloved hands as they sorted through João's stolen planner.
"What are you willing to do to be chosen?" He didn't look up.
Julieta exhaled through her nose, the scent of João's ink still clinging to her fingertips from when she'd torn out page sixty-three. "Survive."
The washing machines shuddered in their cycles, vibrating the concrete floor. Ragnak finally lifted his gaze—not warm, not cold, just *there*, like a scalpel resting against flesh before the cut.
"Answer the following questions."
Julieta's pulse quickened, but she didn't move. The bruise on her ribs from Bruno's elbow last night throbbed in time with the machines.
"Would you steal?"
She thought of the pistol taped under her sink, the way the steel had chilled her palm when she first gripped it. "I already have."
"Would you deceive?"
A laugh scraped her throat. The translator who couldn't go home, spinning lies like spider silk. "Better than I breathe."
Ragnak stepped closer. The light caught the scar above his brow—the one João's notes hadn't accounted for. "Would you get naked in front of me?"
Julieta's fingers found the hem of her shirt. The fabric stuck to her skin with sweat. She peeled it off, let it drop to the damp floor. Her bra followed, the clasp catching on a nick from last week's knife fight.
The air smelled of bleach and her own salt.
His gaze traced the scar across her ribs—the one from the border crossing, the one João had traced with trembling fingers. "Would you suck my dick?"
Julieta dropped to her knees. The concrete bit into her skin.
Ragnak unbuckled his belt, the leather sighing as it slid free. His cock was already hard, thick and veined. She didn't hesitate. Took him into her mouth, her tongue pressing against the underside as she sucked him deep.
His fingers tangled in her hair—not gentle, not cruel, just *precise*.
She gagged when he hit the back of her throat, tears pricking her eyes. Didn't stop. Just swallowed around him, her nails digging into his thighs.
"Enough." He pulled her off by the hair.
Julieta gasped, spit dripping down her chin. The taste of him lingered—iron and expensive soap.
Ragnak tilted her face up. "Would you let me fuck you?"
Her thighs were slick. Not fear. Not shame. Just the dark thrill of surrender.
"Yes."
He turned her around, bent her over a laundry cart. The metal bit into her hips as he shoved her panties aside.
No warning. No preparation.
He thrust in.
Julieta cried out, her fingers scrambling against the cart's mesh. He filled her completely, stretching her in one brutal stroke.
Ragnak fucked her like an experiment—varying angles, depths, cataloging every hitch in her breath. His hands gripped her waist, thumbs pressing into the bruises Bruno had left.
The machines roared, drowning out the wet slap of skin.
"Would you be my little bitch if I asked you to?" His voice was calm, detached.
Julieta's vision blurred. "Fuck—*yes*."
He snapped his hips harder, driving the cart forward. Detergent bottles clattered to the floor.
She came with a shattered moan, her cunt clamping around him. He followed with a low grunt, spilling inside her—hot, impersonal, like ink bleeding through paper.
He withdrew without a word.
Julieta slumped against the cart, her legs trembling. The fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly.
Ragnak fastened his pants, his movements exact. "Now I know you better."
Julieta wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The taste of him lingered.
Eight days remained.
The laundry room door clicked shut behind him.
Julieta dressed slowly, her fingers brushing the fresh bruises on her hips. João's planner lay abandoned on the folding table, page sixty-three still missing.
She picked it up, thumbed through the remaining contingencies.
*Julieta's breaking point.*
The words blurred.
Outside, the city pulsed—alive, indifferent, bright enough to burn.
=====
The cliffs at Praia da Adraga weren't just steep—they were hungry. One wrong step and the Atlantic would swallow you whole, churning your bones against the rocks like pebbles in a grinder. Camila stood at the edge, the salt wind whipping her braid sideways, tasting the storm in the air before seeing the dark clouds massing on the horizon.
Ragnak appeared beside her without sound. His coat billowed like a living shadow against the violent sky. "Bruno's late."
Camila didn't turn. "He's always late when it matters."
Thunder rumbled far out at sea. The waves below threw themselves against the cliffs, white foam hissing through crevices.
Bruno emerged from the scrub pines, his boots kicking up gravel. Cigarette smoke clung to his jacket, mixing with the brine. "Dramatic fucking spot."
Ragnak didn't blink. "Judgment requires elevation."
Camila exhaled sharply through her nose. The last time they'd all been together, Bruno had been bleeding on her climbing gym floor while Ruben laughed. Now his knuckles were healed, the scabs replaced by pink, angry scars.
Ragnak positioned them facing each other—three paces apart, close enough to see the tension in Bruno's jaw, the way Camila's fingers curled and uncurled at her sides.
"Speak your truths," Ragnak said. The wind stole his words, but the command landed like a scalpel between ribs.
Bruno flicked ash into the gale. "Camila treats pain like it's optional. Like if you just breathe deep enough, just *believe* hard enough, the wound stops existing." His lip curled. "Newsflash—some shit festers if you don't dig it out."
The first raindrops hit Camila's cheeks like cold fingertips. She remembered the magnolia petals sticking to her bare back, Ragnak's impersonal thrusts, the way she'd told herself it didn't mean anything.
"You're not wrong," she said. The admission tasted like seawater. "But you swing truth like a fucking machete and act surprised when people bleed."
Lightning split the sky. For a second, Bruno's face was all angles and shadows, the scars on his hands thrown into sharp relief.
He bared his teeth. "At least I don't pretend the blood isn't real."
The rain came harder now, soaking through Camila's sweater, plastering Bruno's hair to his forehead. Neither looked away.
Ragnak observed them like specimens under glass. "Continue."
Camila stepped forward, gravel crunching under her boots. "You leaked those autopsy photos knowing families would see them. You call it 'truth'—what do you call the kid who found her dad's corpse splashed across Twitter?"
Bruno's cigarette died in the downpour. "Collateral damage."
"Bullshit." Camila's voice didn't rise, but it carried over the storm. "You needed to hurt, so you made sure everyone else did too."
Bruno flinched. Just once. Just enough.
The wind howled through the pines, carrying the scent of wet earth and diesel from the parking lot below. Somewhere beyond the storm, a cargo ship groaned against the waves.
Ragnak tilted his head. "And?"
Camila wiped rain from her eyes. "And you're just as scared of the quiet as Ruben is. You just fill it with noise instead of adrenaline."
Bruno laughed—a sharp, broken sound. "Fuck you."
"Yeah." Camila held his gaze. "But I'm not wrong either."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the raw, unguarded thing in Bruno's expression. For a second, he looked seventeen again—the boy who'd watched his brother die in a hospital corridor, the one who'd started running and never figured out how to stop.
The rain slacked off. The ship's horn blared once, mournful and deep.
Ragnak nodded, satisfied. "Now they know each other better."
Seven days remained.
Bruno turned on his heel, his boots sending pebbles skittering toward the cliff edge. Camila watched him go, her sweater dripping onto the thirsty earth.
The ocean roared below, relentless, indifferent.
Neither of them had raised their voice once.
=====
Neither of them had raised their voice once.
The train to Gare do Oriente rattled through Lisbon's underbelly, fluorescent lights flickering like a failing pulse. Ruben balanced on the edge of his seat, knee bouncing, fingers drumming the knife concealed in his boot. Opposite him, Beatriz sat perfectly still, her hospital ID badge swinging gently with the train's rhythm. The lamination was cracked at the edges.
"Bet you ten euros Ragnak makes us bleed today," Ruben said, grinning like it was a joke. His incisor caught the light—chipped from that fight with Bruno last month.
Beatriz didn't smile. She thumbed the fraying strap of her bag where Julieta's pistol had rubbed the leather raw. "Bet you twenty he doesn't have to."
The brakes screeched. The doors hissed open to the station's vaulted glass ceiling, the morning sun fracturing through steel beams. Ragnak waited beneath the departure board, gloved hands clasped behind his back. The shadow he cast didn't move.
Ruben whistled. "Christ. He looks like a tax audit with teeth."
Beatriz adjusted her sleeves—always covering the scars, even in summer. "Walk faster. He's counting."
Ragnak's gaze tracked their approach. No greeting. Just: "Scenario begins now."
The station exploded into chaos.
A scream ripped through the concourse. A teenager clutched his neck, fake blood spurting between his fingers. Three more "victims" dropped near the ticket machines. The air smelled of copper and burnt coffee.
Ruben's hand flew to his knife.
Ragnak caught his wrist. "Lead. Don't react."
Beatriz was already moving toward the bleeding kid, but Ragnak blocked her path. "Observe only."
Ruben's pulse roared in his ears. Every instinct screamed to tackle the nearest threat, break bones, *move*. Instead, he grabbed a barista's apron, tore it into strips. "You—" He pointed at a shaking tourist. "Call 112. Say chemical spill, fifty casualties. You—" A businesswoman gripping her briefcase. "Secure those doors." His voice didn't shake. He didn't recognize it.
Beatriz stood frozen as Ruben directed strangers, staunched wounds with napkins, carved order from panic. Her nails bit into her palms. She knew triage. Knew crisis. But watching someone else do it?
Agony.
Ragnak appeared at her shoulder. "You see?"
She saw. Ruben's recklessness channeled into command. The way people *listened*. The way he checked each face—not for threats, but for fear.
The drill ended abruptly. The "victims" stood, wiping off stage blood. The station resumed its hum.
Ruben's hands trembled. He shoved them in his pockets. "That it?"
Beatriz exhaled for the first time in nine minutes. Her shoulders ached from tension.
Ragnak handed Ruben a water bottle. "You held back violence. Interesting."
Ruben drained it in one gulp. "Felt like holding back a sneeze."
To Beatriz, Ragnak said only: "How did it feel?"
The truth stuck in her throat like a fishbone. "Like watching someone perform surgery with a chainsaw."
Ruben barked a laugh. "But it worked, didn't it?"
The departure board flipped destinations. A child laughed near the pastry stand. Normalcy pressed in, suffocating.
Beatriz touched Ruben's arm—brief, impersonal. "It worked."
Ragnak watched them walk away. Ruben's gait was looser, shoulders no longer braced for impact. Beatriz's steps were measured, deliberate, like she was relearning the weight of her own body.
Seven days remained.
At the taxi rank, Ruben lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. "So. We good?"
Beatriz stared at the hospital ID in her palm. The cracked lamination. The smudged photo. She snapped it in half.
"Better," she said.
The wind carried the sound of tearing plastic toward the river, where Julieta stood on the 25 de Abril Bridge, watching tankers crawl toward the Atlantic. João's planner was open in her hands. Page forty-two flapped in the breeze.
*Contingency: Let them change.*
She let go.
The paper spiraled downward, a white wing against steel cables, vanishing into the Tagus.
Somewhere below, a cargo ship sounded its horn—one long, mournful note.
Julieta walked away.
The city absorbed them all, relentless, indifferent, bright.