Chapter 8: Cigarette

Alexzandrei Constantine had learned cruelty long before he learned mercy.

As a child, he had been beaten by the very woman who was supposed to protect him. His mother blamed him for his father’s death. His father who had pushed him out of the path of a speeding car and paid for it with his life. Grief twisted into hatred, and hatred found its outlet in him.

He was struck when she was angry, struck when she was tired, struck until he could no longer rise from his bed. She stopped only when she felt satisfied, leaving a child to endure pain no child should ever have to understand.

And his suffering did not fade with time. Instead, it hardened and numbed him.

Growing up, Zandrei learned to survive by shutting parts of himself down. Somewhere along the way, his pain curdled into something darker. He developed an instinctive aversion to women, rooted not in reason but in memory. A raised voice, a sudden touch, even a lingering presence could set his nerves on fire. Rage came fast and unfiltered, like a defense mechanism forged in a house where love had always come with bruises.

So he chose a world where violence was honest, where power was currency and fear was respected. The underworld did not ask him to heal, it asked him to be ruthless. And he was. He was efficient, detached, and untouchable.

Women were never a temptation to him. Never a thought. His hatred and his discipline ran too deep for desire to find a foothold. He kept his distance, his rules rigid, and his life controlled down to the smallest detail.

Until now.

Until a woman rushed toward him without fear. Her steps were frantic, her hands were shaking not with malice but with genuine concern… unaware that she was standing before a man who could take her life at any time and think nothing of it.

But he knew, instantly, that something about her was different.

The very second a gust of wind swept through the narrow alley and hit his face, carrying her intoxicating scent with it, something inside him fractured. The years of burning rage he had carried in his chest, years sharpened into violence, into control, into cold survival...quieted as if someone had reached in and extinguished the flame without permission.

It unsettled him.

Her nearness did not make his skin crawl. Her touch did not ignite the familiar surge of fury that usually demanded blood or distance.

Instead, he felt his body betray him.

His manhood twitched at the light brush of her fingers, and the simple pressure of her hands sent shivers down his spine, stealing his breath and leaving him momentarily disarmed.

He had no words for it. No explanation. No instinctive urge to push her away.

And as he remained unnaturally calm, watching her fuss over him murmuring anxieties, hands trembling as she tried to help, treating him not as a threat but as someone worth saving...he felt something shift, something dangerous and irreversible.

This was not a coincidence.

This was the kind of encounter that altered trajectories and ruined men like him.

And Alexzandrei Constantine was ready to be ruined.

So he kept watching her as she pressed the cloth to his shoulder. Her brows were drawn together in fierce concentration while her lips pursed in clear disapproval. She glanced at the wound again, then up at him with her eyes flashing, worry quickly giving way.

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, pressing harder than necessary. “Do you know how deep this is? You let it bleed like this and you’re just standing here. Are you not hurt at all?!”

Her gaze flicked to the cigarette between his fingers, still faintly smoking.

“And that?” she scolded, clearly offended on his behalf. “You’re wounded and you still had the nerve to smoke? Seriously..."

She shook her head, tongue clicking softly as if he were a reckless child instead of a dangerous man.

“Honestly… men like you die early.”

Alexzandrei didn’t interrupt her.

Didn’t correct her.

Didn’t even smile even though his lips badly wanted to. No one had spoken to him like this in years, and no one had dared.

Yet here she was, fussing, scolding, hands gentle despite her words, treating his wound like it mattered, like he wasn't a stranger. And he let her. He let her press the cloth, let her hover, let her exist in his space without consequence.

“What is your name?” he asked at last.

Marceline froze.

A flicker of realization passed across her face before fear took hold. Her eyes darted past him toward the street beyond the alley.

“I—I have to go,” she stammered, stepping back. “I… I really should. Please have a doctor check on that.”

She bowed quickly, almost flustered, then turned on her heel not because she wanted to leave him.

But because she remembered the errands she had to finish. The groceries she needed to buy. The clock is ticking.

And above all, Rafael.

If he found out she had stopped here, alone, with a stranger… if he knew even a word of this encounter, he would make her pay.

Her steps quickened and she hurried against the pavement, heart hammering with the fear of what awaited her at home.

Zandrei’s hand shot out instinctively, reaching for her wrist, trying to stop her, but she slipped from his grasp.

She was already rushing away, vanishing down the alley with hurried steps, like a forgetful child who had remembered something important far too late and was afraid to turn back.

For a moment, he simply stood there.

Then he chuckled in disbelief.

Just then, a metal door a few feet away from him, creaked open.

“Sir. Are you alright?” the man asked a little worried. “We finally caught the traitor. He attempted to flee through the east sector. Should I arrange our flight back and keep him alive for questioning?”

Zandrei slowly exhaled, eyes lifting toward the thin slice of daylight at the end of the alley where she had disappeared. His ash-colored gaze caught the light.

Then he smiled.

Regan went still.

It was the first time he had ever seen Alexzandrei Constantine smile like that.

“Yes,” Zandrei said softly. “I'll do it myself.”

“...Copy."

“Anyways, I have more important matters to attend to,” Zandrei added, already turning away. “And Regan...get me a house, will you?”

“...Yes, sir.” Regan hesitated, glancing at the blood darkening Zandrei’s shoulder. “Shall I call a doctor? The wound appears deep.”

“Not necessary.” Zandrei held out his hand. “The keys.”

Regan placed them into his palm. “Shall we wait for you at the usual location, sir?”

Zandrei didn’t look back. He lifted one hand in a dismissive wave as he walked away.

“I'll call.”

The alley swallowed him whole, blood still warm against his skin. His thoughts no longer lingered on the traitor or the knife embedded in his shoulder, but on the woman who had scolded him for bleeding too much. Who had looked at him with panic instead of fear, who had dared to fuss over him while he stood there smoking through a wound that would have sent others to their knees.

The image of her lingered.

The crease between her brows. The way her hands trembled even as they reached for him. The way she had forgotten herself just long enough to care.

It settled deep in his bones, heavy and intrusive, refusing to leave.

How could he have let her walk away?

Zandrei let out a chuckle. The sound echoed faintly off concrete walls. It wasn’t amusement.

It was a realization. It was a slow, dangerous clarity that washed over him.

There was no reason to let this pass. No reason at all.

After all, he had already decided.

Some things, once seen, were not meant to be lost.

Some encounters were not accidents, but claims waiting to be made.

And Alexzandrei Constantine had never been a man who denied himself what he wanted.

Not when this feeling had already taken root.