Chapter 1: Metal and Blood (Patreon)

Author’s Note:

This story is an AU (alternative universe) and is not connected to the main storyline of the “Harcyses” world. The events take place in a modern post-apocalyptic setting: a world consumed by an epidemic that turns people into ravenous monsters or mutants.

Original (ukr) / Translation (eng)

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The world has fallen to an epidemic that transformed people into the Rotten — creatures driven by relentless hunger and instinct. Several years have passed since the catastrophe. Only the strongest survive… and not always the most humane.

Larikon is a healer hiding from the Rotten and running from people who hunt him not for debts or betrayal. But he ends up in the hands of another predator — Berkan, a half-monster feared by both sides.

Thus begins the story of two strangers in a world where nobody saves anyone for free.

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Chapter 1

Metal and Blood

The storage room drowned in semi-darkness. Warm light seeped through the cracks in the ruined ceiling in narrow, slanted beams, tinting the floating dust a golden-copper hue. It smelled of blood, wet cloth, and the rot of the local monsters — the Rotten, as they were called. Once they had been human, but the infection twisted their bodies, stretched their bones, sharpened their teeth, and wiped from their minds anything resembling consciousness. Only reflexes remained. Hunger. Aggression… sometimes worse.

Something scratched against metal, something thudded dully against the walls, and every now and then the air split with a low, suffocated growl. Larikon sat locked inside, pressed against the cold wall, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. He wouldn’t have ended up here if everything hadn’t gone to hell again. It always did with him: he planned one thing but reality delivered another. He’d lost his bag of valuables. He’d been shot in the leg. And now the sun was sinking toward the horizon, slowly sliding behind the broken edges of the roof. And at night, as everyone knew, the Rotten hunted far more actively.

Yet despite everything, this place was almost a gift. A half-intact storage room in an old shopping mall: dry, enclosed, with doors that still held together. He could rest here, spend the night, maybe even dig the bullet out of his thigh. Just a damn little piece of metal, and yet it throbbed and burned every time he tensed the muscle, refusing to let the wound heal properly. Lar clenched his teeth and forced himself not to move. He had to sit still, endure, and hope the Rotten wouldn’t pick up the scent of blood soaked deep into the old bandage, wouldn’t decide to come visit.

Somewhere far away, metal screeched as if scraped by claws. Larikon tensed instantly. His back pressed harder into the wall, his fingers tightening around the grip of his pistol until the knuckles turned white. A raspy, guttural growl came from the other side of the door, far too close to ignore. One of the Rotten had caught a scent after all.

“Goddamn shit… Can I at least get through the end of the day without all this crap?” he hissed under his breath and hurriedly checked the magazine.

Five rounds. Six, counting the one in his leg. Maybe enough to stop one uninvited guest. Or maybe not and then others would come. Or something worse…

Something slammed against the door, and the shelving unit barricading the entrance let out a sinister creak. Dust rained down from the ceiling, tiny fragments clinking against the concrete. Lar held his breath, waiting for the next blow. But the next moment a sharp whistle cut through the air, as if metal sliced it clean. Then another — followed by a wet splatter and a crunch. A sudden crash against the door jolted the hinges… and Larikon himself. Something heavy collapsed behind it, and the roar cut off mid-sound, so abruptly it really did feel like it had been severed.

Lar finally drew a tense breath and in that same second the doors burst open, blown apart with a single strike. The shelving slid aside with a hollow clang, light as a toy.

In the doorway, silhouetted against the backlight, stood a giant. His body nearly filled the entire frame. A worn leather jacket stretched across shoulders as wide as the doorframe itself. On his left side gleamed a metal pauldron, and in his right hand — a machete, its blade dripping slow, thick beads of almost black blood. He stepped forward, lowering his head so as not to hit the frame. Too tall. Too massive. Over two and a half meters in height. Bull-like horns, a heavy mane of wine-red hair cascading over his shoulders. The lower half of his face was hidden under a metal mask with a grille over the mouth. Only his eyes were visible — yellow-gold, locking onto Larikon in an instant.

“Alive?” came the deep voice, muffled slightly by the mask’s filter.

Larikon froze, pressing himself against the wall. His heart hammered wildly.

“Alive,” he muttered, swallowing the knot of tension. “Unlike that one…”

And before the giant could react, the gun was already pointed at his chest. A few long, stretching seconds of taut silence. The stranger frowned slightly. In the warm, slanted light he got a better look at Lar: a lean figure in a worn shirt and black cargo pants, messy ginger hair, and the gaze of a wild animal, cornered, but still fully capable of tearing out a throat.

“Lower the weapon. I won’t harm you,” he said gently but firmly, shaking the blood off the machete.

Lar jerked, his finger almost brushing the trigger.

“Really?” he snapped sarcastically. “And then what? We’re going to introduce ourselves? Or did you come to stock up on a week’s worth of meat for your shabby little cave?”

“A week’s worth of meat…” The giant’s gaze slid slowly from Larikon’s head to his feet, assessing him, then rose back up with a narrowed, almost amused look. “Maybe for breakfast. A small snack.”

“Choke on it,” Lar muttered quietly but defiantly. “I’ve got sharp bones.”

The man in the mask slowly lowered himself onto one knee and unhurriedly set the machete on the ground. He didn’t look away for a second, continuing to study the cornered stray in front of him. His gaze lingered on Larikon’s thigh — specifically on the blood-soaked bandage. A sharp inhale rasped through the grated mask, rough and textured.

That smell… Even without leaning closer, one could sense fresh blood mixed with metal, gunpowder… and something else. Something unusual.

“If you pull the trigger, every Rotten within a mile will come running,” the giant said, meeting his eyes again. “But I, unlike you, will be able to walk out of here on my own two feet.”

Two deep lines formed between Larikon’s brows, and he reluctantly lowered the gun.

“Who are you, and what the hell do you want?”

“Usually, people in your situation don’t ask questions. They ask for help.”

The man stood and pushed the door closed behind him. Surprisingly, it hadn’t broken yet, though it groaned in protest.

“Yeah,” Lar scoffed. “And then these ‘saviors’ ask for payment.”

“I don’t save people for money. I earn my living by killing.”

“Judging by the fact that your machete’s on the floor, you didn’t come here to kill me? Charity work?”

“No,” he said, reaching behind his back and pulling out a backpack. “Just curiosity.”

The stranger set it on the floor, and Larikon’s expression shifted involuntarily, surprise flickered in his eyes.

“You lost this.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

“How did you—?”

“By the scent,” the giant interrupted. “And also… Your blood. It’s strange.”

Surprise snapped into tension. Lar’s fingers tightened around the gun grip.

“You don’t smell like the others…” the man continued.

Lar decided he wasn’t going to listen anymore. He jerked the gun up. But the shot never happened.

Two heavy steps and the giant was already looming over him. A hand clamped around his wrist in an instant, and the gun clattered to the floor. The grip was like stone. The masked man crouched down and leaned closer, speaking quietly but with a weight that pressed into the words:

“Enough playing. I could’ve disarmed you in the first second.”

“Of course,” Lar gave a crooked smile, flashing his sharp teeth. “But I fight to the end. Even if I’m facing a big mutant brute.”

“That’s good, little mouse,” the giant said, amusement curling in his voice.

The next moment the stranger yanked him upward in one swift motion. A flash of pain ripped through Lar’s thigh, tearing a hoarse sound from his throat before his back slammed into the cold wall. His body hung in the air: arms pulled above his head, legs dangling helplessly. The giant held him effortlessly at eye level, both wrists pinned in one large hand. To him they were like thin branches — a little more pressure and they would crack.

Larikon had absolutely no desire for that to happen, so he didn’t struggle: Don’t you dare break anything, idiot… I still need these fingers for the flute!

“Now. Who are you?” the man asked firmly.

Fear crawled like static down Lar’s spine, but he didn’t look away.

“What do you mean, ‘who am I’? Weren’t you sent after me? I’m…” he swallowed, “just a mercenary. I ran from a gang and they shot me. They’ve gone completely insane over their own stupid fights, and I got tired of it. You get it?”

“You could’ve come up with something better than ‘a mercenary who ran away’. It’s cliché. Like your sharp bones.”

“Well excuse me for not rehearsing my tragic backstory while I’ve got a bullet stuck in my ass and someone holding me by the scruff like a damn poodle,” he snapped. “And seriously, why do you care? What do you want from me? Identification papers? Or have you never seen a wounded pretty boy before?”

“A pretty boy?”

The giant’s gaze slid over Lar again but this time without aggression. There was curiosity now. He let his eyes travel slowly: the thin lips, the unnervingly sharp teeth, then the golden nose ring that looked strangely fitting on that brazen face. Only after that did he focus on the eyes. Now he saw them clearly: one icy blue, the other golden, like a wild cat’s. A strange combination that stirred something instinctive inside the body.

His gaze dropped lower and froze on a sliver of bare skin peeking from beneath Lar’s rumpled shirt. It must have ridden up when he lifted him, now deliberately revealing a little more than it should. His stomach was lean, well-defined, and from his navel downward ran a thin, subtle line disappearing under the waistband.

Lar felt the shift instantly, saw how the man began to study him: You horny bastard… staring without even blinking. But… maybe I can use this.

“You don’t have to be shy~” he continued instantly, seizing the moment. “If I die tonight, at least I’ll know someone wanted to… sin with my corpse.”

His voice turned theatrically ironic, with a faint, deliberate provocation.

The man in the mask didn’t reply, but Larikon definitely noticed it — the breathing behind the metal became deeper, heavier. The giant leaned in closer, and the cold mask brushed Larikon’s cheek.

“You’re not a mutant. But you don’t smell human either.”

“Want to satisfy your curiosity?” Lar whispered, slowly breathing into his ear. “Is that why you pinned me to the wall and practically fucked me with your eyes?”

The giant’s face twitched back. His sharp, irritated stare almost sank its teeth into Lar’s smug grin.

“Don’t pretend to be a saint while sniffing me like a dog,” he added with a sly edge.

Unexpectedly, the stranger pulled a hunting knife from his belt. Lar instantly tensed as the blade was raised to his stomach: What the fuck—? Stop. This isn’t flirting anymore!

The sharp tip grazed his skin, making him flinch. Then the blade moved upward slowly, catching the fabric. It didn’t cut — it undressed. One button — a click, and it snapped off. Second — same sound. The shirt parted, exposing his stomach and chest. Cold air hit the overheated skin, raising a trail of goosebumps. Lar inhaled sharply. For a moment, something glinted on the right side of his chest. The masked man nudged the fabric aside with the knife’s tip, revealing a nipple with a gold piercing.

“I knew it…” Lar managed after a shaky swallow. “You really did want to sin, didn’t you?”

His voice trembled a little, though he clung to the ironic bravado.

“Don’t exaggerate,” the giant murmured, his gaze never leaving the body.

“Then kill me. Or kiss me,” Lar smirked. “Because right now I can’t tell those two apart.”

And in that very moment, the knife slid between his thighs. Metal flashed, catching a beam of light, slicing straight through his nerves and freezing him in place. But sharper than the blade was the stare: piercing, consuming, pinning him to the moment. The giant didn’t blink, watching every twitch of muscle, every breath. Larikon clenched his jaw, trying not to show weakness… but the man saw everything, not the bravado, not the mockery, but the fear.

The knife glided upward, pressing against the crotch of his pants, lifting the fabric higher. It was the dull side of the blade; the pants remained intact. But the pressure was firm, a warning. Finally, the knife stopped right at his groin. The movement was rough, deliberate.

Yet for a heartbeat, it looked as if the giant himself stiffened: What the… He almost said out loud. There was no familiar anatomical resistance beneath the blade. As if—

He cut that thought sharply and frowned, leaning in close, so close their breaths met.

“Don’t tempt a beast unless you’re ready to be eaten.”

Lar’s heart skipped a beat, the world flickered, and for a moment he slipped out of reality. Then suddenly his feet touched the ground and the crushing grip on his wrists loosened. He was released. His body swayed from its own weight, and Larikon immediately snapped back, pulling the shirt closed and clutching it tightly to his chest.

“The bullet isn’t in your ass. It’s in your thigh,” the giant continued calmly, as if nothing had happened. He shifted his attention to the pistol still lying on the floor. “It needs to come out. How long have you been hiding here?”

“I don’t know… maybe an hour,” Lar muttered, dry and detached.

His gaze stayed sideways, avoiding direct eye contact, though he watched the giant from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t ready to face those predatory eyes again. Not now. His body was still buzzing with tension, like he’d just been doused in cold water: intact, unhurt, “clean,” yet vulnerable.

“Are they still chasing you?”

“I don’t know. I ran — didn’t ask.”

The giant picked up the pistol, flicked the safety on, and tucked it behind his belt where no one else could reach it easily. This did not make Larikon feel better. The situation was slipping out of control, and panic surged inside him.

Lar caught the exit with the corner of his eye: the door wasn’t fully shut. If he wanted to avoid being pinned or, gods forbid, restrained again, he had to run now. But the moment that thought flashed through his mind, the doorway was blocked by the horned giant. One thing would be slipping past an ordinary human, even wounded, Lar could’ve done it. That was the whole plan. But… he absolutely did not expect this mountain of a man to find him.

The masked man looked over his shoulder with skeptical disinterest.

“Why are they chasing you?”

Lar’s fingers curled on their own, tension tightening his shoulders. Answering that question could either help or make things catastrophically worse.

“Well…” — the words tangled on his tongue; he hesitated. “It’s… because I’m a healer.” he finally forced out, glancing at the man’s face.

“Hm.” the horned one drawled. “As an explanation, that could account for their enthusiasm.”

He clearly didn’t buy it and something in Lar’s chest snapped.

“You think I’m some damn rat who robbed them and bolted?! Or maybe a debtor running bare-assed from collectors?! I’m sure you’ve already rummaged through my things in that backpack — in MY backpack! And why the hell should I explain anything to you when YOU haven’t explained what you want?!”

The giant turned fully toward him, voice still calm:

“At first, I thought you were bait. Throwing things around.”

He lifted the backpack and easily slung it over his shoulder.

“Hey, that’s not yours!” Lari barked.

“And turns out you’re just a lost stray who barks louder than he bites.”

“You—!” Lar bared his teeth, shoulders tensing.

The man only snorted.

“If you’ve decided to die here, you’re better off coming with me. We need to reach shelter before dark.”

He picked up his machete at last and slid it into the sheath behind his back. The metal clicked like a period at the end of a sentence.

“What the… fuck?! I’m not an idiot to willingly walk into a mutant’s claws!”

“No one’s asking you. I picked you up, stray.”

“Pah! Only if you catch me, bastard!” Lari shot back, crossing his arms.

“All right.”

The giant moved toward him and for a heartbeat, Lar froze. But the moment the horned one came close, his instincts kicked in. The man grabbed his sleeve but Lar slipped free like a lizard shedding its tail, ripping the shirt right off. He darted toward the exit, leaving behind a very confused brute holding a fistful of fabric.

“Back off, butcher! I might be light, but I’m not easy!” he yelled, limping but refusing to stop.

But fate, as usual, had other plans. Right under the doorway, outside the storage room, lay an obstacle — the corpse of the Rotten one that had tried to break in earlier. Lari tripped hard and crashed to the floor. Concrete and sharp gravel scraped open his shoulder, and when he pushed himself up, his palm landed right on shattered glass.

“Fuck!..” he hissed, jerking his hand back as pain shot through his fingers.

Thin bloody lines immediately surfaced. He only managed to look at his palm before sensing a shadow behind him. A silhouette fell over him and without thinking, Lar grabbed a shard and stabbed upward with all his strength. The glass sank into something tough and warm. A low, guttural growl answered and then a heavy hand slammed down onto him. The world tilted, and he ended up pinned to the ground, sandwiched between cold concrete and a massive body.

“Don’t touch me!” Lari thrashed desperately, fingers sliding over the soft fibers of sleeves, over straps, buckles, metal plates. “Get your hands off me, you fucking troll!”

The giant pinned his wrists to the floor; his knees settled on either side of Lar’s hips not touching, but cutting off any escape.

“Silence,” he said evenly, as if restraining him required no effort at all.

“I’m not your damn prey, you hear me?! You fucking sperm donor! I’m infected! I’ve got rabies, plague, leprosy, and something else too, fuck!”

“The rabies part I already noticed,” the horned one muttered and clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the shout.

Larikon thrashed harder, but the mutant’s grip held firm, unyielding, yet not cruel. The cut on his palm throbbed, the wound in his leg opened again. “Silence,” the giant hissed again and before he could say another word, Lar snapped his head to the side and sank his teeth into the hand covering his mouth. His sharp teeth sank into the man’s palm so hard they pierced the glove and broke skin, as if trying to bite all the way to bone. The giant flinched, more from surprise than pain, but the hand didn’t move. He didn’t hit him, didn’t curse, didn’t squeeze harder to force him to let go, though he clearly had the strength to do it. Instead, he exhaled sharply through the mask. Warm blood welled beneath Lar’s lips, the metallic tang spreading across his tongue. They stared at each other, frozen in place: a sharp, heavy, golden-tinged gaze versus a wild, furious amber-blue one. And then…

…A short, sharp sound echoed from the dark corridor beyond the storage room. A dull clang against metal. Someone muttered a curse. Larikon’s eyes darted restlessly, and he slowly unclenched his teeth, releasing the hand. His breathing was ragged, but he no longer struggled.

“I’ll give you that,” the giant said calmly, finally removing his palm. “You do know how to bite.”

But he didn’t look down at the wound. His gaze slid instantly into the darkness of the corridor, where the sounds were growing clearer. Larikon could feel it, something shifted in the mutant. A pressure. A heaviness. A dangerous stillness, like the moment a wild predator fixes its eyes not on you, but on the threat behind you. Among the broken shelves, half-collapsed crates, and peeling concrete of the storage block, the sensation cut deeper than fear. Whatever was coming… it wasn’t him the horned giant was preparing to attack.

“Well? Is that little bitch in there?” a coarse voice rang from around the corner.

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s already dead…”

“Doesn’t matter… I’m gonna fuck him anyway.”

“You’re a sick necr0ph!le.”

“Pha-ha-ha!”

Lar inhaled sharply. For the first time, his expression twisted into pure, unfiltered fear. Not of the horned brute looming over him but of those approaching voices. The mutant sensed it instantly. His grip changed, didn’t loosen, but shifted into something else: protective, restraining, like the heavy paws of a beast covering its catch from other predators.

“That’s… them,” Lar whispered.

“Silence…” the giant answered not with authority this time, but with warning.

The corridor they’d ended up in was narrow and suffocating: a former service passage between the warehouse and the technical rooms. The air was thick with mixed smells, and dust raised by their earlier struggle settled slowly on the concrete. The masked man leaned even lower, his forehead almost brushing Lar’s. Instinct tensed Laríkón’s whole body and right then a harsh scent hit his nose: sharp, dried sweat mixed with something earthy.

“Back off, you smell like shit…” he hissed reflexively, not even expecting a reaction.

The horned one just exhaled roughly.

“I’ll shove a gag in your mouth if you don’t stop yapping,” he muttered under his breath. “And to keep you from biting.”

Meanwhile, the voices behind the wall cut through the silence again:

“Boss said to bring him back alive. So shove your dick up your own ass!”

“Could put it in an ass… just not mine.”

“You fucking degenerate, are you insane?!”

“Shut up, both of you! Or I’ll nail all of you to the damn shelves. Now listen: you go there, and you, over there. Move!”

Footsteps split and faded down different hallways, and gradually the silence swallowed the space again. The horned giant still didn’t get up. He didn’t release Lar’s wrists either, he just held them there, steady, not squeezing. Laríkón shot him another sharp, wary look. Angry, but no longer afraid. Something had shifted. Not the way it should shift when a predator has you pinned to the floor. A thought slipped in, unwanted and stubborn: If anyone here gets me out alive… it’s the one I just tried to chew apart.

“Going to get off me anytime soon? Or do you enjoy holding me down like this?” he threw with the same prickly irony.

The giant didn’t answer, but finally moved, slowly and released his wrist. So slowly that Lar felt the warm drag of fingers leaving his skin.

“Can you stand?” he grunted.

“Not sure,” Lar hissed, pushing himself up on one elbow. “Would’ve been easier if a certain brute hadn’t smeared me across the floor…”

He tried to get up, but his leg buckled sharply, sending him back onto one knee.

“We can’t stay here,” the horned one said and, without explanation, tossed the shirt onto Lar’s head, the same one Lar had peeled off while fleeing.

“You got a better idea?” Lar scoffed, ripping it off, right as he noticed the giant pulling a long shard of glass from his side.

Only now did Laríkón realize the giant had endured it all without a single flinch. The horned man inspected the torn section of fabric and brushed a hand over the ragged edge.

“One to one,” Lar smirked crookedly.

The giant didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to Lar’s leg. A dark blotch of blood had spread wider, soaking through the fabric and dripping onto the floor. Instead of putting his shirt back on, Lar gripped the cloth between his teeth and tore it. It became an improvised bandage he wrapped tightly around his thigh to slow the bleeding.

“If we move now, the Rotters will find us fast.”

“That’s why I was sitting quietly, minding my own business until you barged in and stirred everything up,” he snapped through clenched teeth as he forced himself upright using the wall.

“I know. You’re welcome.”

Lar’s eyes went wide with pure rage.

“Want me to bite you again?”

“Maybe after you brush your teeth.”

“You arrogant—! Clean your own damn muzzle first. You breathed in my face so hard I could smell it through the mask,” he grumbled, though the giant was already scanning the surroundings instead of listening. “No wonder you wear that thing.”

The horned man shot him such a sharp look that Lar flinched and instantly folded his arms over his chest. He fell silent, and the giant turned his heavy gaze away.

“Alright. Then let’s go back,” the horned man said, nodding toward the warehouse doorway.

“Bossing me around again…” Lar muttered under his breath, but still limped forward.

The giant followed him in and carefully closed the metal door.

“And what if they come back and—”

He stopped mid-sentence when he turned around. The horned one had picked up a piece of rebar from the floor and slid it through the handles, locking the door in place. Then, with unsettling ease, he lifted a massive shelving unit,  as if it were just an empty box and propped it against the entrance. Laríkón nearly gaped. Now not only could no one get in no one could get out either.

“Sit,” the giant ordered, pointing at a wooden crate beside them.

“For what?”

“So it’s easier.”

“For whom?”

The horned one snorted and, without a second thought, grabbed Lar by the waist and set him down on the crate.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing!?”

“Getting the bullet out of your leg,” he said, crouching in front of him to inspect the thigh. “I don’t like the way it looks.”

“Neither do I. And I don’t mean the bullet.”

The giant drew a slow breath… and suddenly said, completely casually:

“Take off your pants.”

Lar froze:

“I—excuse me?”

“Take them off.”

“This is not the moment for your fetishes!”

“I need to see the wound.”

“You couldn’t have said that first?!”

“I did.”

Lar covered his face with both hands:

“God, please take me away from here…”

“Can’t yet,” the giant replied calmly and quickly cut through the improvised bandage with his knife. “I’m not done with you.”

With one swift motion he tore the pant leg open.

“A–A–AAAH!!”

“Now I can see.”

May a Rotter tear your ass the way you just tore my pants… spun in Lar’s head as he bit down on his lip, staring through his fingers.

The giant leaned closer, gently spreading the edges of the wound with his fingers.

“The bullet’s inside. Not too deep, but stuck.”

Lar swallowed hard:

“So what…”

“I’ll take it out.”

“YOU?!”

“Yes.”

“With WHAT?!”

“…My fingers.”

“Have you even seen your fingers? They’re like sausages! You’ll rip me apart! I’ll die not from blood loss but from PAIN!”

“I’ll be careful. I’ll use my pinky.”

“Shove that pinky up your own ass!” Lar snapped. “Fine… fine!” He exhaled slowly, trying not to think about the mutant’s hands. “Get the leather roll from my backpack. It’s on top.”

The man nodded and pulled the backpack off his shoulder.

Inside the leather roll lay several tools: tweezers, a narrow clamp, a scalpel, sterile pieces of gauze, and a small vial of something sharply pungent.

“They need to be disinfected. And proper lighting wouldn’t hurt either.”

The giant paused for a moment, as if scrolling through options in his head. Then he reached to his belt, pulled out a compact flashlight, and clicked it on. A warm yellow beam sliced through the dimness and fell directly across Lar’s thigh.

“I’ll hold it here,” he said evenly, setting the flashlight on the crate beside them.

“No,” Lar cut him off immediately. “Move it higher. I don’t want a shadow over the wound. And stop shaking it, you’re not an old granny. Now the tools,” he continued, issuing instructions. “The vial. The smelly one. Pour generously. On the tweezers. On the clamp. On the knife… and on your fingers. Especially your fingers.”

The man carried out every order calmly and precisely. Lar watched in silence and didn’t say aloud that it wouldn’t hurt to check the giant’s own side wound first. 

The liquid reeked sharply of alcohol with a bitter undertone. The giant removed his gloves and soaked his fingers thoroughly. They really were big: thick, hardened, calloused pads, made for weapons rather than delicate work.

“Listen carefully. You don’t press. At all. You’re not pulling a nail out of a plank.”

The man continued disinfecting and gave a short nod. Everything was ready. Lar exhaled slowly.

“You can… hold onto me,” the giant said quietly. “Just don’t bite.”

Lar looked at him — at this massive brute who, just minutes ago, had disarmed him, taken his backpack (well, found it and refused to return it), pinned him to the wall, then to the floor, tore his pants — and now… was looking at him as if afraid to hurt him. And despite his own injury, he was the one treating Lar first.

“O-okay…”

He wrapped an arm around the giant’s shoulder and let his forehead rest there for a moment.

“By the way… what’s your name?”

“Berkan.”

“Strange name…”

“I’m starting.”

“Already? Shit…”

The cold tweezer touched the hot, throbbing skin and slid into the wound slowly, but with steady precision. Warm blood trickled down Lar’s thigh. He sucked in a sharp breath, clenching his teeth as if he could crack them. Berkan worked silently, focused. Far too carefully for a man his size.

“Breathe,” he said, voice low. “And don’t move.” His fingers tightened on the thigh, holding it still.

“I… am… not—” Lar hissed, burying his face in Berkan’s shoulder just to keep from crying out.

The tweezers dug deeper, and Lar involuntarily clawed into the leather of his jacket. A small metallic scrape — he’d touched something. A few seconds. A short pull. And the tweezers came out holding the bullet: dark, covered in blood.

Lar exhaled shakily. His strength gave out and he nearly collapsed onto Berkan entirely. The giant placed a hand on his back to keep him from tipping to the side — the gesture was gentle, almost calming.

The bullet clinked against the metal floor.

“That’s done,” Berkan said simply, as if he’d just removed a splinter.

“Now… gauze,” Lar whispered. “Press. Hard, but don’t crush me.”

The giant obeyed, working deftly with one hand while the other still held Lar close.

“This is… going a lot smoother,” Lar muttered, trying to smirk though his lips trembled. “Considering your bear paws…”

“You said how to do it,” Berkan replied. “I listened.”

i slowly opened his eyes and pulled back on his own, keeping his balance. Now their faces were almost level: Berkan kneeling on one knee, Lar sitting on the crate. And for the first time, Lar wasn’t angry or snapping and Berkan no longer seemed so cold and sharp-edged.

“Is it going to be like this from now on?” Lar asked hoarsely.

Berkan looked him directly in the eyes. Didn’t answer immediately. As if weighing a decision more than a phrase.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “If you’re useful.”

He tightened the bandage, but let his hand rest on Lar’s thigh. Not pressing. Just staying there. Lar said nothing. He looked into his eyes for several seconds, then lowered his gaze and gently moved Berkan’s hand away.

“So what now?”

Berkan watched that motion carefully, as if studying every reaction.

“Now I watch,” he said. “And you’re the one who heals.”