CHAPTER 70: Vladslavia-2 Conclusion

CHAPTER 70: Vladslavia-2 Conclusion

The president's office was decorated with a grotesque luxury, as if someone had tried to imitate European elegance without truly knowing how. In the midst of it all, a large, dark ebony table stretched towards the panoramic window. In front of it, a young man no older than thirty, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and wearing a charming smile, observed the jungle horizon stretching beyond the glass. He was the President of Vladslavia. Cunning, ambitious, with a cold intelligence behind his storefront charisma.

He turned around just as the doors swung wide open.

"So... you are Azazel," said the President, walking calmly to his seat.

Azazel was already there, of course. Sitting nonchalantly in one of the leather armchairs, his muddy boots propped up on the table, leaving marks that would infuriate any decorator. He was chewing gum. He wore a dark jacket frayed at the edges, and his eyes glinted with pure apathy.

"And you're the brat who thinks he's the king of this circus?" Azazel replied without standing up or removing his feet from the table. "Look, I don't know what the fuck you brought me here for, but if there's no bloodshed, I'm out of here."

The President didn't flinch. He sat down opposite him with a sly smile.

"You know exactly why you're here. Vladslavia has a protection contract with Enid Corp., but frankly, I'm interested in something... more fun. Something with chaos. And you reek of it."

Azazel raised an eyebrow. He clicked his teeth. He was amused.

"Keep talking, brat."

"I want to offer you a deal. You protect Vladslavia in your own way. Do whatever you want as long as you ensure my enemies don't get close. In return..."

The President leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers.

"I offer you a feast. Humans, lycans, vampires... whatever you please. Maybe even Enid Corp.'s little dolls will provide some fun. Play with them if you want. Break them. Or make them scream."

Azazel burst out laughing. A rough, vibrant laugh that seemed to shake the walls.

"Fuck... You're really tempting me. Can I break their bones slowly?"

"You can do whatever you want."

Azazel sucked his teeth, removed the gum, and shamelessly stuck it to the corner of the table.

"Deal, brat. Just make sure you don't get in my way when I get creative."

The President offered his hand, but Azazel just looked at it.

"I'm not a hand-shaker. I get paid in blood."

And with a crooked smile, the incarnate demon accepted the game. Vladslavia had just sealed a pact with hell.

Azazel slowly rose from the armchair, stretching his arms as if he had just woken from a boring nap. He took a few casual steps around the room, inspecting a golden statue with no real interest, like a bored predator in a cage.

"And tell me, brat," he asked without looking at the President, "these Enid Corp. people... are they strong or do they just look the part?"

The President settled back into his chair, still with that smile of someone always three steps ahead.

"Some are just pawns in uniform, but there are exceptions. The best of them all is named Phoenix Roger. About a month ago, he eliminated Adam... the first lycan."

Azazel stopped dead.

"Adam? That prehistoric sack of muscles?" he snorted with a mix of mockery and amazement. "Well, well, the game has certainly changed."

He was thoughtful for a second, then narrowed his eyes as if trying to remember.

"Phoenix Roger... that name rings a bell." He frowned. "I heard it somewhere, but I don't remember if it was in a fight, a massacre, or a drunken stupor a hundred years ago. Meh, whatever."

He shrugged with a crooked smile. Then he turned back to the President.

"Fair warning, brat. If this Phoenix is as good as you say... maybe I'll give him the pleasure of facing me. And if not, he'll just be another broken toy for my collection."

The President nodded calmly, without fear.

"As long as you protect me, you can do whatever you want."

Azazel walked towards the exit, kicked the doors open carelessly, and before disappearing into the dark hallway, he let out one last laugh.

"See you soon, Vladslavia. Let the fucking show begin."

In the White House, the air was thick, heavy with dust and the smell of blood. Among the shattered columns and collapsed walls, Phoenix stood, breathing heavily. In front of him, Adam smiled sadistically, his hands stained with fresh blood.

"Look at you..." said Adam, his deep voice dripping with contempt. "You couldn't even save him."

Phoenix, not fully understanding, looked down. Then he saw it.

On the floor, the remains of Lucio were barely a recognizable echo of what he had been. Shattered flesh, broken bones... and on the wall, dark stains that were still dripping. Phoenix's stomach churned.

"No..." he murmured, taking a step back, his eyes wide open.

Adam approached slowly, his smile widening.

"All your fault. Neither your strength nor your courage saved him. You are weak, Roger... and everyone pays the price."

Phoenix felt the world closing in on him. The buzzing in his ears grew, and amid the gloom and rubble, a distant voice began to filter through:

"Phoenix... Phoenix... wake up."

The scene dissolved into shadows until it completely disintegrated.

Phoenix's eyes snapped open, drenched in sweat. The constant roar of the engines replaced the echo of Adam's laughter. Marcus was leaning towards him, frowning.

"The Adam dream again?" he asked in a grave but understanding tone.

"Yes..." Phoenix replied, looking away. His voice sounded rough, as if it still carried the weight of the memory.

He sat up, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"I'm going to the restroom."

Marcus nodded silently as Phoenix walked down the aisle. Closing the small bathroom door, he leaned over the sink and turned on the tap, letting the cold water hit his hands before splashing his face. He looked at himself in the mirror; his reflection seemed older, more tired.