the seraphim paradox

"Anyways, what's your name?" Eun-jae asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice light but laced with sharp curiosity.

The man in front of him—lean, dangerous-looking, and clearly not in the mood for small talk—gave him a flat stare, like he'd just asked whether water was wet.

"Really now..." Sergey exhaled through his nose, almost scoffing. "The name is Sergey." His tone was clipped, uninterested, and dismissive as hell. Then, without another word, he stood up, as if the conversation had already ended.

Eun-jae rolled his eyes. Seriously?

"Well, I'm Eun-jae," he replied, because unlike some people, he actually had manners. Even if this guy was acting like names were irrelevant bullshit in the grand scheme of things.

Sergey barely acknowledged him, already walking toward the other side of the dimly lit room.

"You should get some rest," he threw over his shoulder, like this entire situation wasn't completely fucked beyond repair.

Eun-jae narrowed his eyes.

That's it?

"That's it?" he echoed, his tone dripping with disbelief.

Sergey turned slightly, raising an eyebrow. "That's what???"

Eun-jae scoffed, crossing his arms as he gave him the flattest, most unimpressed look he could muster.

"Shouldn't we be discussing our future plans?"

Because, hello??? They weren't exactly chilling at a five-star resort, sipping cocktails. They were in deep shit. Their mission had just gone horribly wrong, and now they were stuck here, dealing with the aftermath. The fact that Sergey was acting like they had nothing to talk about was beyond frustrating.

Sergey sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his hair.

"What future plans?" His voice was laced with exhaustion, but also a quiet finality that made something inside Eun-jae bristle. "Don't you get it? This mission is a failure."

A failure.

A FAILURE?!

Eun-jae felt something cold and furious coil in his chest.

His heartbeat picked up speed, his blood pumping with a dangerous mix of adrenaline and indignation.

After everything—after all the hell he had survived—he was just supposed to sit back, accept defeat, and go home like some wounded animal limping back to its den?

"Don't worry about anything," Sergey continued, his voice so damn casual it made Eun-jae's skin itch. "HQ has everything covered. As soon as you're well, you'll go back home."

Oh.

Oh, hell no.

Eun-jae opened his mouth, ready to argue, to fight, to tell Sergey exactly how stupid that sounded—

But then—

Sergey suddenly paused.

A small shift in posture. A subtle tension in his shoulders. Then he turned his head, side-eyeing Eun-jae with an unreadable expression.

And smirked.

A slow, knowing, mocking smirk.

It sent a cold shiver down Eun-jae's spine before he even understood why.

"Oh, and one more thing…"

There was something in his voice—something dangerous—something calculated.

Eun-jae instinctively tensed, muscles coiling like a spring.

Sergey's smirk widened, and the next words that left his mouth landed like a gut punch.

"It looks like that fucker really liked your ass… From the way that place looked torn… yeahhhh… he did real damage."

Eun-jae blinked.

What.

The.

FUCK?

His brain short-circuited.

His mouth opened—then closed—then opened again. No sound came out. Nothing.

His entire system froze.

The words didn't immediately register, as if his mind was desperately trying to reject them—as if acknowledging them would somehow make them real.

But then—

It hit him.

Like a dam bursting. Like a flood swallowing him whole. Like a nightmare dragging him under, refusing to let go.

Flashes of the relentless assault slammed into his mind, images so vivid, so painfully raw, that he physically flinched.

Days.

Endless. Fucking. Days.

Trapped, cornered, broken piece by piece under Caesar's suffocating presence. The hands that had grabbed him, the mocking laughter, the taunts whispered in his ear like poison, the way his body had been pushed past its limits, treated like a possession, a toy, a plaything.

The pain.

The humiliation.

The unrelenting, suffocating hell he had endured for an entire week.

His fingers clenched into fists. Hard.

So hard that his nails bit into his skin.

His breathing turned ragged. Shallow.

No.

No. No. No.

He refused to remember. Refused to let those memories take hold.

But they wouldn't stop.

The phantom touches. The bruises. The smirk on Caesar's face.

His stomach twisted violently. His vision blurred at the edges, white-hot and suffocating.

His entire body burned.

With rage. With shame. With a fury so absolute it felt like his soul itself had caught fire.

His chest heaved. His pulse roared in his ears.

Something inside him snapped.

"CAESAAAARR!!!!"

The name ripped from his throat—raw, guttural, violent.

A scream so full of rage it felt like it could shatter the very walls around him.

"AAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHH!!!!"

His fists slammed into the nearest surface. His body shook. His breath came out in sharp, broken gasps, his entire being consumed by one, singular, all-encompassing thought.

"I WILL KILL YOU!!! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!!!"

His screams echoed, bouncing off the walls, vibrating in his bones, drenched in fury, in vengeance, in a promise of absolute retribution.

His nails dug so deep into his palms they almost drew blood. His body was coiled so tightly it felt like he might explode.

His eyes burned. His soul burned.

Caesar thought he had won.

He thought he had broken him.

But he had made one fatal mistake.

He had left Eun-jae alive.

And now?

Now, that bastard was going to learn—the hard way—that he had just signed his own death sentence.

Because Eun-jae wasn't just going to kill him.

No.

He was going to destroy him.

Rip him apart.

Piece.

By.

Piece.

SIB HEADQUARTERS – VSESLAV'S OFFICE

The heavy oak door creaked slightly as it swung shut behind Caesar, locking him inside the lavish, dimly lit office of his older brother, Vseslav Karpov-Troitsky. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather, ink, and the faint bitterness of the tea steaming on the polished mahogany desk.

Vseslav sat behind that desk, his fingers laced together as he regarded Caesar with his usual unreadable expression—a mix of exhaustion, exasperation, and the perpetual realization that his younger brother would never cease to be a source of relentless chaos.

Caesar, draped lazily across the armchair opposite him, let out a long, dramatic sigh as he brought the delicate porcelain teacup to his lips. His movements were deliberate, as if savoring the moment, relishing in his own melodrama.

"Haaaaaaa…" he exhaled, letting the sound stretch for effect.

Vseslav's brow twitched. "What?"

Caesar took another slow sip before setting the cup down with a gentle clink. His expression was wistful, almost dreamy, as he tilted his head and stared at the ceiling.

"I don't know…" he mused, voice laced with an exaggerated air of mystery. "I just have this feeling… like somewhere out there, someone is cursing my name… cursing me with every fiber of their being."

He paused for effect, then let out a soft chuckle as he reached for the cup again. "Hmph. How dramatic, right?"

Vseslav gave him a deadpan look. "Dramatic?" he echoed. "You?"

Caesar smirked, twirling the cup between his fingers before taking another sip. His expression immediately soured.

"Ugh. Bitter." He muttered, setting it down in clear distaste.

Vseslav exhaled sharply through his nose. "And whose fault is that? Maybe if you didn't drown everything in sugar like a child—"

Caesar waved a hand dismissively, already moving past the conversation in his own mind. His fingers traced the rim of the teacup absentmindedly. "So, what brings dear old big brother to summon me today?" he asked in a bored tone. "Surely it's not just to scold me again? How terribly dull."

Vseslav leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his knuckles. His gaze was sharp, assessing. "Father is very disappointed in you."

Caesar barely blinked at that. Instead, a slow, lazy smirk curled at his lips, his eyes flickering with something unreadable—amusement, perhaps, or something far more dangerous lurking beneath.

"Hmmm…" he hummed, tapping a single finger against his chin. "I see. I have heard that so many times now, I think I've become immune to it."

Then, as if struck by some great revelation, his smirk widened, and he let out a soft laugh.

"Oh, but of course. You're father's puppet, aren't you?" His tone was syrupy, dripping with condescension. "His ever-loyal soldier, always rushing to deliver his words like some tragic messenger in a Greek play."

Vseslav's jaw tightened. He clenched his fist beneath the desk, but his face remained unreadable. He had long since learned not to react to Caesar's provocations—it only encouraged him.

Caesar, sensing the tension, only laughed again. Light, careless, as if the entire conversation was nothing but a game to him.

"Come now, big brother," he purred, tilting his head. "Surely you have something more… interesting to tell me?" His eyes gleamed, predatory, sharp. "Something fresh, something exciting."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and propping his chin against his hand, his gaze locked onto Vseslav's like a hunter watching prey.

"Because, quite frankly, I'm getting rather bored."

The air between them was heavy, a silent clash of wills.

Vseslav remained still, his grip on his patience slipping, while Caesar sat there, smirking, waiting, taunting.

Vseslav leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressing deep into his temples, massaging slow circles as if trying to soothe the dull, persistent ache in his skull. It had been over a decade. More than ten long years of covering up his younger brother's disasters, meticulously erasing the evidence of his madness before it could stain the family name beyond repair.

Yet no matter how much effort he put into cleaning up Caesar's messes, there were some things—some memories—that refused to be wiped away.

Like that day.

The day he realized that Caesar wasn't just reckless.

Wasn't just dangerous.

He was something else entirely.

It had all started with a horse.

Rurik wasn't just any horse.

He was a beast of unparalleled strength and grace, a true king among stallions. His coat was the color of polished obsidian, sleek and smooth like liquid night. His powerful muscles rippled beneath his hide as he galloped, moving with the effortless elegance of a creature born for speed.

Yaroslav adored him.

Rurik wasn't merely a prized possession—he was a symbol. A gift from a foreign prince, a testament to Yaroslav's status and influence. He was the kind of creature that men envied and women admired, a horse that commanded attention wherever he went.

And then, one morning, he was gone.

Yaroslav had turned the estate inside out searching for him.

His voice rang through the halls like thunder, each shout laced with growing desperation and fury. Servants scurried out of his path, their heads bowed low, terrified of becoming the target of his rage. The stable hands were interrogated mercilessly, forced to recount their every move the night before.

But no one knew anything.

The estate guards were sent out into the forests, combing every inch of the land for any sign of the missing stallion.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

And Yaroslav refused to rest.

Then, one evening, when the last traces of sunlight had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of violet and indigo, a stable boy came running into the main hall.

His face was pale, his chest heaving with exertion, and his eyes—his eyes told the entire story before he even spoke a single word.

They had found Rurik.

Or rather… what was left of him.

Deep in the woods, far beyond the hunting grounds, where the trees stood like silent sentinels and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay—they found the remains.

What had once been a creature of raw beauty and power was now nothing more than a scattered collection of bones.

Stripped bare. Picked clean by scavengers.

His skull was missing.

But it wasn't just the gruesome remains that sent an icy chill creeping up Yaroslav's spine.

It was the message.

Carved with meticulous precision into the bark of a towering oak tree.

The letters were clean, deliberate, as if the person who had carved them had taken their time, ensuring every stroke was perfect.

"Rurik wanted to fly."

Silence.

A deep, suffocating silence.

It was the kind of silence that wrapped itself around the clearing like a noose, the kind that made the very air feel heavier, pressing down on their chests with unseen weight.

Then—a sound.

Soft at first. A mere whisper against the cold evening breeze.

Then it grew.

A chuckle.

A slow, measured laugh, dripping with amusement.

Vseslav turned, his heart hammering against his ribs.

There, standing at the edge of the clearing, watching them like a spectator at a play—was Caesar.

His hands were casually tucked into the pockets of his coat. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, as if he were simply enjoying the evening air.

And on his face—that smile.

That damned smile.

Not just pleased.

Not just amused.

Delighted.

Yaroslav's breathing grew ragged, his entire body stiffening like a drawn bowstring, his muscles coiled so tight that he felt as if he might snap at any second.

Caesar took a single step forward, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes.

Something dark.

"I always wondered," he mused, tilting his head slightly, his voice light, conversational—as if discussing the weather.

"What would happen if a horse fell from a great height?"

The world stopped.

Yaroslav's head snapped toward him so fast that his neck cracked.

"What," his voice was eerily calm, too calm, "did you just say?"

Caesar simply sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Rurik wanted to fly," he repeated, lips curving at the edges.

"So… I helped him."

For a moment—just a moment—there was only stillness.

Then—Yaroslav moved.

Yaroslav Snaps

The punch came with the force of a man who had lost all reason.

He swung with everything he had, his vision painted in a haze of red, his entire being fueled by an uncontainable, all-consuming rage.

But Caesar—as always—was faster.

Effortlessly, gracefully, he dodged, stepping to the side with a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Yaroslav's fist hit the tree behind him with a sickening crack.

Caesar let out another laugh.

"Oh, brother," he murmured, shaking his head. "So dramatic."

Yaroslav roared, his fury reaching its breaking point.

He lunged again, this time with pure intent to kill.

Another swing—but Caesar was waiting.

The moment the fist came hurtling toward him, he moved like a phantom, ducking low before driving his elbow into Yaroslav's stomach.

Yaroslav staggered back, humiliated.

Caesar straightened, dusting off his sleeves with lazy indifference.

"You know," he mused, his voice carrying a lilt of amusement, "for someone who brags about training every day, you sure are slow."

Something inside Yaroslav snapped.

He reached for his belt, yanking out the small hunting knife strapped to his side.

Without a second thought—he swung.

The blade gleamed in the dim light, a blur of silver and steel as it sliced toward Caesar's throat.

And for the first time—Vseslav moved.

His hand shot out, catching Yaroslav's wrist mid-swing, gripping it with an iron hold.

"Enough."

Yaroslav struggled against him, wild-eyed, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Let me go, Vseslav!" he snarled. "Let me kill him!"

But Caesar…

Caesar didn't flinch.

He stood there, completely unfazed, his smirk never once wavering.

His eyes gleamed—not with fear.

Not even with amusement.

But with hunger.

Even Now…

Vseslav exhaled slowly,

That was the day he truly understood.

Caesar wasn't just reckless.

Wasn't just cruel.

He wasn't just a monster.

He was something far, far worse.

Caesar was a spectacle, an uncontrollable force of nature wrapped in the delicate disguise of a golden-haired prince. His ice-blue eyes were always alight with amusement, as if the entire world existed solely for his entertainment—until, inevitably, he got bored.

A walking mass of destruction. A storm dressed in silk and charm, trailing blood and ruin wherever he went. He destroyed whatever piqued his interest, and when he grew bored, he discarded it—shattered, lifeless, forgotten.