On Red Wings

Mikhail's head felt heavy like it was filled with lead, and every blink seemed to take an eternity. Darkness pressed in from all sides, the air thick, suffocating. Slowly, the edges of consciousness began to sharpen, and he became aware of the cold, hard surface beneath him. He tried to shift his body, to move his hands, but they wouldn’t budge. The unmistakable feeling of thick straps dug into his wrists and ankles, pinning him in place.

He was tied to a chair.

Mikhail’s vision blurred, then gradually began to focus, revealing a dimly lit room around him. He groaned, his voice barely audible, his mouth dry as sandpaper. A slow, throbbing ache pulsed through his temples, and his entire body felt bruised and weak. The room was featureless—bare concrete walls, a floor stained with rust or something darker. The only source of light came from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if disturbed by movement.

“What the hell…” he muttered, his voice rough, the words coming out like sandpaper against his throat.

He was still trying to piece together what had happened, the fragments of memory slipping away like water through his fingers. He remembered walking back to his apartment, the door left ajar—that uneasy feeling creeping up his spine—and then—nothing. His mind was blank, and he fumbled trying to remember. He could almost see it, almost grasp it, but every time he tried, the memory slipped further out of reach. The headache made it worse, each throb sending him back to square one.

He swallowed, his throat painfully dry, and shifted in the chair. His wrists ached, the leather straps biting into his skin. He tried to turn his head, but the pain flared up the side of his neck, forcing him to wince. It felt like he had been out for hours, the disorientation leaving him adrift. He blinked again, squinting at the dim light that swayed above. The bulb cast long, wavering shadows across the concrete floor, shadows that seemed to dance with each subtle movement of the light.

A muffled sound caught his attention—something faint in the distance. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound, listening. The sound grew clearer, and soon, an image formed in his mind. He could see water crashing against itself or perhaps, against something. Along with the image came a smell. He could smell the salt but he could also smell something else, something acidic that burnt his nose as he smelled.

He was somewhere on the water that much was clear. Perhaps he was on a boat? No, he thought, that wouldn't explain the room he was in but where else could he possibly be? He needed to see where he was.

He tugged against the restraints, his muscles straining as he did so. The leather straps creaked slightly, but they held firm, biting into his skin. His legs were similarly strapped down, the bindings unyielding. He took in a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. His head throbbed, and each movement made the pain worse, but he couldn't stop himself from struggling. He had to get out—he had to find a way.

Suddenly, the heavy door in front of him creaked open, the rusted hinges groaning. Mikhail stilled, his eyes narrowing as he squinted against the sudden influx of light from the doorway. The scent of salt air grew stronger along with the smell of oil as five figures stepped into the room.

They were all large, stocky men—each of them wearing dark, oil-stained clothes, their faces hidden beneath burlap sacks, roughly tied around their necks. Though he couldn't see their faces, their eyes were just barely visible through crude cut-out holes. One of the men had a metal pipe slung over his shoulder, and the others held pieces of wood or simply balled their hands, their knuckles turning white.

Mikhail’s eyes darted to the door, seeing nothing beyond the opening except a narrow metal walkway—and in that instant, it clicked. The chill of recognition sank into his bones. The metal walkway, the harsh smell of salt, and oil, and now the smell of something burning—it all added up.

He was aboard the Glacier Oil Rig just off the coast of Arkenversk.

Mikhail's mouth was dry, but he forced himself to speak, his voice raspy and weak. "Who are you?" he managed to croak, his eyes narrowing on the shadowy figures that loomed over him.

There was no response—just silence that seemed to stretch, thick and heavy, in the dim room. The men stood there, their burlap masks obscuring their expressions, giving nothing away. Then, without a word, one of the men stepped forward. There was no hesitation, no buildup—just a sudden, vicious motion. The man’s fist swung through the air, and before Mikhail could brace himself, the punch connected with his face.

The impact was like an explosion, a sharp burst of pain that sent his head snapping to the side. His vision went white for a moment, a blinding flash that seemed to short-circuit every thought in his mind. He tasted blood immediately, the metallic tang flooding his mouth, and he could feel his lip split under the force of the blow.

The man didn’t stop there. He grabbed Mikhail by the collar, yanking him upright, forcing him to look up through eyes that were already starting to swell. Mikhail barely had time to draw a breath before the man’s other fist crashed into his stomach.

Mikhail's entire body jerked violently against the restraints, the air driven out of his lungs in a guttural wheeze. His ribs screamed in protest, the old bruises from earlier blows reigniting with fresh agony. He felt his stomach clench, the nausea rising as the pain spread like fire through his abdomen. He tried to draw in a breath, but it was like his lungs had forgotten how—every inhale a ragged, desperate attempt that barely brought in enough air to keep him conscious.

Another punch came—this time to his cheek. His head snapped back, the crack of bone echoing in his ears, and he felt his skin tear, a hot line of pain splitting across his face. Blood flowed freely now, dripping down his chin, and splattering onto the cold floor beneath him. He could taste it, feel it running down his neck, warm and sticky.

The men around him laughed, the sound muffled through the burlap sacks. Mikhail tried to keep his focus, tried to stay conscious, but every part of him was screaming in pain. His face throbbed, his body ached, and the taste of blood made it hard to think, hard to do anything but endure.

The man who had punched him leaned in close, his masked face inches from Mikhail's own. “You think you’re tough?” he hissed, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think you can just walk away after what you did?”

`Mikhail forced himself to look up, his vision blurred and swimming, his breaths coming in shallow, painful gasps. He could barely keep his head up, the weight of it feeling like too much after the repeated blows. His ears were ringing, the man’s voice echoing in his head, distorted and almost unintelligible.

“What?” Mikhail managed to croak, his voice barely a whisper, each syllable grating against his dry throat.

The man pulled back slightly, his body tense. One of the others behind him took a step forward, and Mikhail could see the barely contained rage simmering beneath the burlap sacks they wore. “You don’t get it, do you?” the man spat.

Mikhail blinked, trying to clear his vision, trying to focus on what they were saying. Once it was clear Mikhail had no idea what they were talking about, the man standing closest to him shook his head in disgust. “Our friends,” he said, his voice rising with anger. “The guys you beat half to death at the bar! You thought you could just do that and walk away? You fucking crippled two of them for god's sake!”

The realization hit Mikhail like a punch to the gut, almost harder than any of the blows they had already delivered. Truth be told, Mikhail knew the possibility of the group’s coworkers or friends coming back for vengeance wasn't zero, but he thought they would just try and jump him in the streets, maybe catch him off guard for a quick beating—not this. He hadn’t expected them to go this far, to kidnap him, drag him out to the middle of nowhere, and make an example out of him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts despite the pounding in his skull. He knew he wasn’t innocent—he knew what he did at the bar went beyond just defending himself. He had snapped, let all the anger, the rage, the frustration come pouring out, and they had paid for it.

But now, it was his turn. They were making sure he knew it.

“Not so tough now, are you?” one of the men taunted, his voice laced with satisfaction. Mikhail opened his eyes, staring at the man as he paced back and forth, like a predator circling its prey. The others stood around him, watching, waiting, fists clenched, eager to keep going.

Mikhail forced a bitter smile, blood staining his teeth. “You...you think this will fix anything?” he rasped, his voice raw from the dryness and pain. “You think...this makes you any different from me?”

The leader of the group paused, his head tilting slightly as if considering the words. Then, with a snarl, he stepped forward and swung again, the back of his hand cracking across Mikhail's already bruised face. Mikhail's head snapped to the side, fresh pain exploding behind his eyes, but he held onto that tiny thread of resistance.

“You don’t get to talk,” the man growled. “You’re done. Do you understand me? This ends with you.”

Mikhail spat out a mouthful of blood, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He had known the risks and had understood that standing up to them would make him a target. But even now, beaten and bloodied, he didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

He stared up at the man, his vision narrowing to a tunnel, darkening at the edges. He was tired—so tired—but he wasn’t broken. Not yet.

“Do your worst,” Mikhail muttered, his voice barely audible, each word a struggle, but there was still defiance there, buried beneath the pain. He saw the men’s eyes narrow, saw the anger flare again, and he braced himself.

It was then that the group descended on him like wolves.

***

Blood dripped slowly onto the floor as Mikhail’s head hung forward, his chin resting against his chest as his breaths came in and out, shallow and wheezing. His face was swollen beyond recognition, his eyes reduced to narrow slits, bruises blooming in violent hues of purple and red. Blood streamed down his skin, dripping from his split lips, his nose crooked and shattered. A few of his teeth lay scattered on the floor, stark white against the dark, sticky pool of blood that had gathered beneath him.

His entire body felt like it was on fire, every inch bruised or broken, each breath a laborious struggle. The leather straps holding him in place had cut into his wrists, leaving raw, bloody marks where he had strained against them. He fought to keep his eyes open, to hold onto the last threads of consciousness, the edges of his vision dim and blurred.

In front of him, the group of men stood catching their breaths, their chests heaving. The rage that had fueled their assault had dissipated somewhat, leaving only exhaustion and adrenaline behind. One of them leaned against the wall, his shoulders rising and falling as he sucked in deep breaths. His fists were cut up, knuckles raw and bloody, the result of repeated, forceful impacts against Mikhail's bones.

“Damn bastard,” one of them muttered, shaking his hand out, his fingers bruised and swollen. He winced at the pain, his frustration evident as he tried to flex his hand, but it barely responded. Another man was examining his own knuckles, which had split open, blood seeping between the torn skin. He cursed under his breath, wiping the blood on his oil-stained trousers.

The leader of the group stepped back, his breath still ragged, but his stance was steady. He looked at Mikhail, his eyes narrowed behind the burlap mask. “Doesn’t look so tough now, does he?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. Despite the mask, there was a sense of satisfaction in the way he looked at Mikhail—like he had finally put down a rabid dog.

Another man spat on the floor near Mikhail's feet, shaking his head. “Should’ve just stayed down, old man,” he sneered. “Would've made this easier for both of us.”

Mikhail could barely hear them. Their voices were muffled, distant, drowned beneath the pounding in his head. Every muscle in his body screamed, the pain so overwhelming it was almost numbing. He struggled to lift his head, managing only a slight tilt before it dropped back down, too heavy to hold up.

Mikhail could barely hear them. Their voices were muffled, distant, drowned beneath the pounding in his head. Every muscle in his body screamed, the pain so overwhelming it was almost numbing. He struggled to lift his head, managing only a slight tilt before it dropped back down, too heavy to hold up. His breaths came in wet, rattling gasps, his lungs struggling to draw in enough air to keep him conscious.

The men were regrouping, exchanging glances, a shared understanding passing between them. They weren't finished. Not yet. One of them stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, his fists still bloodied from the earlier blows. He looked down at Mikhail, his lips curling into a sneer beneath the burlap mask.

“Alright, old man,” he muttered, his voice dripping with malice. “Round two. Let’s see if you’ve got anything left in you.”

The others gathered around, their stances shifting, ready to pounce once more. Mikhail tried to brace himself, tried to gather the fragments of his strength, but every part of him was screaming, every instinct telling him to just let go.

But before they could start, a crackling sound erupted in the silence—a voice coming through the static of a radio.

The leader cursed under his breath, reaching for the radio strapped to his belt. He pressed it to his ear, the voice on the other end garbled but insistent. The others paused, glancing over at him, their posture shifting from aggression to frustration.

“Yeah, what?” the leader grunted, irritation clear in his voice. He listened, his expression tightening. He glanced at the others, rolling his eyes. “You’re kidding me,” he muttered, his tone bitter.

The radio crackled again, the voice on the other end more forceful now. The leader sighed heavily, lowering the radio, his teeth clenched beneath the mask.

“Some of the guys need help,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance. “They’ve got a problem with the crane and were the only group nearby who can help them.” He looked around at the others, a sneer evident in his tone. “Guess we cant have some fun before heading back to work.”

The others groaned, a mix of anger and disappointment in their body language. One of them kicked at the ground, muttering curses under his breath. The leader stuffed the radio back on his belt, shaking his head.

“Alright, let’s go,” he barked. “We’ll deal with this bastard later.”

He turned to the group, pointing at one of the men, the one who had been more hesitant than the rest. “You,” he said sharply. “Stay here. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. We’ll be back soon.”

The man nodded, though there was a hint of reluctance in the way he stepped forward, his eyes flickering towards Mikhail. He adjusted his stance, planting himself firmly by the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

The leader looked back at Mikhail, his eyes narrowing through the slits in the burlap sack. “Don’t go dying on us now,” he sneered, his tone mocking. “We’re not done with you yet.”

With that, he motioned for the others, and they began to file out of the room, their heavy boots clanging against the metal floor. The door groaned open, letting in the cold air once more, and then slammed shut behind them, leaving Mikhail alone with his guard.

For a moment, the guard just stood there, his eyes on Mikhail, watching as he slumped forward in the chair, his head hanging low. The silence in the room stretched, the guard shifting his weight from foot to foot, seemingly unsure of what to do next.

Finally, he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Look at you,” he muttered, his voice filled with disdain. “Big tough guy, huh? Thought you were something special back at that bar, didn’t you?” He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. “Now look at you. Barely holding on.”

Mikhail remained still, his breathing ragged and shallow, his face bruised and swollen, his eyes closed. He looked like he was barely conscious—like he was clinging to the edge of awareness, every breath a struggle.

The guard took another step, emboldened by Mikhail’s apparent weakness. He pulled a knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the dim light of the room. He held it up, the sharp edge catching the faint light from the swaying bulb overhead. He made a few slashing motions in the air, the blade slicing through the space between them with a soft whoosh.

“You know,” the guard said, his tone conversational, almost casual, “they told me to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t go anywhere.” He took another step closer, the knife held out in front of him, the tip aimed at Mikhail’s chest. “But they didn’t say I couldn’t have a little fun while I was at it.”

He smirked, his eyes glinting with a cruel excitement. He leaned in, the knife moving closer, his free hand reaching out to steady Mikhail’s head. “Maybe I’ll leave a few marks for them to remember me by,” he whispered, his voice low, a twisted smile on his lips.

He moved in closer, his hand brushing against Mikhail’s chin to lift his head, the blade poised to slash. But just as he did, Mikhail's eyes snapped open, a fierce light burning behind the bruises and swelling.

Before the guard could react, Mikhail's leg shot out, the strap that had loosened during the earlier beating giving him just enough room to move. His foot connected squarely with the guard’s chest, the impact sudden and forceful.

The kick sent the guard sprawling to the floor, his body crashing down hard, the air driven from his lungs with a ragged gasp. He lay there for a moment, stunned, his hands trembling, before the realization of what had just happened seemed to jolt him into action. He scrambled, his eyes wide, his fingers clawing desperately across the floor as he reached for the knife that had fallen just out of his grasp.

Mikhail, his body a mass of pain and exhaustion, knew he had to act fast. He could barely see, his vision blurred and his head pounding, but adrenaline was coursing through his veins, lending him strength where there should have been none. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his feet, each movement a fresh agony that shot through his battered form.

The leather straps on his legs were loosened, enough to allow him to stand, though his ankles were still tethered to the shattered remains of the chair. He wrenched himself upright, swaying for a moment as the room spun around him, black spots clouding his sight. The guard was still reaching for the knife, his fingers brushing against the handle.

Mikhail had no time to think. He acted purely on instinct. He threw himself backward, using the chair still strapped to his wrists as a makeshift weapon. He jumped, bringing the chair down with all his weight and force, slamming it against the guard’s chest. The impact was deafening, the old wooden frame splintering instantly, shards of wood flying in every direction, the metal joints creaking and bending under the force.

The guard let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with shock and pain as the chair shattered over him. The force of Mikhail’s weight drove him to the floor, his head slamming against the cold concrete with a sickening thud. The knife slipped from his reach, clattering uselessly across the room.

The guard’s eyes rolled back, his body going limp beneath the broken remains of the chair. Mikhail collapsed alongside him, panting, the pieces of wood scattered around them, his body trembling with the exertion. His chest heaved, his lungs burning, the adrenaline beginning to fade and leaving behind only the relentless, throbbing pain that seemed to pulse through every part of him.

He looked down at the guard—he wasn’t moving. His eyes were closed, his body slack, his breathing shallow. Mikhail allowed himself a moment of relief, his heart pounding in his ears. He didn’t know how long he had, didn’t know when the others would be back, but he had bought himself time—time he couldn’t afford to waste.

Slowly, painfully, Mikhail began to pull himself free from the remains of the chair, his wrists raw and bleeding from the leather straps. He needed to get out. He needed to move before they came back and found out what he had done. With that, Mikhail hobbled out the door, closing it behind him as he went...