Page 204 of Celestial Combat

That didn’t sound like my mother.

Aleksandr turned, eyes full of pain and sorrow now. “Said it. Thought it. Same fucking thing, boy.”

Kali leaned in, her voice steady and quiet, a thread of calm cutting through the storm. “What happened?”

He stilled. Her softness reached him in a way mine couldn’t.

Without a word, he reached inside his jacket. His hand came back slow, careful. From his inner pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper – creased to hell, the edges worn almost soft. He didn’t look at it as he handed it to Kali.

“She gave me that the day she told me goodbye,” he murmured. “But I still carry her over my heart. I think I always will.”

Kali took the letter with both hands. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew her eyes were reading faster than her mind could keep up.

The bar was starting to rot around the edges. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a ghost that wouldn’t leave, curling in slow, bitter tendrils around the wolf pelts on the walls. The vodka on Aleksandr’s breath was strong enough to burn through iron. He was sinking again, back into his bottle like it was the only anchor he had left.

Then, he squinted at me. His voice cut through the haze like a dull knife.

“Is it your birthday?”

I blinked. “What?”

He pointed with a lazy hand. I looked down and saw a sliver of stiff paper sticking out of my jacket pocket – a postcard,the corner curved from the press of fabric. The one Kali had bought for me in that dusty shop near the railway crossing. Cyrillic script in bright red letters on a snowy background.

Happy birthday.

I hadn’t even thought about the date. My eyes flicked to the cracked clock above the bar.

Fourteen minutes past midnight.

January 10th.

“Yeah. It is.”

I’d barely registered the words before Kali passed me the letter. The one Aleksandr had carried over his heart for over three decades.

I opened it carefully, the paper fragile. The ink was faint but clear enough to read. The words were soft. Measured. Grateful.

She told him she loved him. That what they had was beautiful. But that it wasn’t meant to last. That she wanted to make it work with her son’s father. The Yakuza boss. A polite goodbye dressed as a gentle lie.

“Happy birthday, son.”

My blood iced in my veins.

Because that was not my mother’s writing.

But my father’s.

Chapter 52

Present

Siberia, Russia

THESUV HUMMED LOW BENEATH us, its tires cutting a steady rhythm through the snow-packed road, like a heartbeat trying too hard to stay calm. The headlights threw long shadows that twitched and vanished over the frost-laced trunks. It was just after midnight. Just after everything changed.

Zane hadn’t spoken since we left the bar.

The only sound was the engine and the muted crunch of snow beneath our tires. No music. No idle conversation. Just the road, the dark, and the weight of what he’d told me.

---