CHECHNYYA, 2009
ROOK scanning with binoculars, chewing gum:
"Heard about that masked chick in Odessa? NATO bagged some gunrunner, and she slit his throat mid-interrogation. Left a rose in his mouth. Classy."
DREY adjusting scope, uninterested:
"Focus. Wind's shifting."
ROOK grinning "Come on, man. Freckles, legs for days, and allegedly kills people with a hairpin—you'd risk a bullet just to—"
SNAP.
A twig broke 10 meters left. Drey's finger hovered over the trigger.
Chechen insurgent, knife in teeth, crawling toward their nest.
ROOK whispers "Shit. We're compromised—"
DREY didn't hesitate. He pulled his sidearm with lightning-bolt alacrity.
First shot: Knee shattered.
Second shot: Spine severed.
Then—he climbed down, grabbed the man's own knife, and carved a GROM insignia into his forehead.
ROOK staring at the carnage "Well. That's a fucking message."
DREY wiping blood on his pants "Now he's someone else's problem."
PRESENT DAY- VIKTOR'S FINGER STILL ON THE TRIGGER, HESITATING OVER THE COP.
NASTYA pressed her gun to Viktor's spine:
"Lower it. That cop's my asset—he funnels me NATO intel on rival arms dealers."
VIKTOR teeth gritted "Lev; your father wants him dead."
NASTYA smirking "So fake it. Plant his badge on some junkie corpse. I'll even lend you the knife."
Viktor realizes: She's testing him. Does he adapt or break cover?
VIKTOR said, "You owe me."
NASTYA traces his jaw with the barrel "Mm. I do."
A DERELICT MEATPACKING PLANT. THE AIR REEKS OF IRON, CHLORINE, AND SPOILED MEAT.
The cop—Officer Yevgeni Durov—is duct-taped to a rusted slaughterhouse hook, his dress shirt soaked in sweat and the blood from his split lip.
Viktor leans against a broken conveyor belt, cleaning his knife.
Nastya perched on a stool, peeling an apple with a switchblade.
NASTYA smiled, tossing the apple peel at Yevgeni's feet "You know what's funny, Officer? We don't even care what you did. Somebody wants you dead.
Maybe you skimmed cash. Maybe you fucked the wrong wife. Maybe you just breathed too loud."
VIKTOR examining his knife "Point is, you're lucky it was us they sent. Because Nastya here… has a soft spot for you."
YEVGENI gasped "I—I don't underst—"
NASTYA cut him off, mock-offended "Tsk. After all those helpful tips you gave me? The border patrol schedules? The evidence locker oversights? Really, Yevgeni—I had to do something. I'm not ready to lose you just yet, my sweet Yev."
VIKTOR deadpan "Say 'thank you,' Yevgeni."
YEVGENI shaking "Th-thank you—"
NASTYA clapped "There it is! Now, here's the deal: You disappear tonight. New name, new city, no goodbyes. And when I call…"—She leans in, her breath cold against his ear "…you say 'How high?' before I finish 'Jump.' Understood?"
YEVGENI nodded frantically "Yes! Yes—!"
Nastya gives her switchblade to Viktor, who slashes the tape.
Yevgeni collapses. Nastya tosses a burner phone onto his chest.
NASTYA sweetly "The correct answer is: 'The weather is clear in Odessa.' Say it."
YEVGENI sobbed "The—the weather is clear in Odessa—"
VIKTOR hauled him up by his collar "Say it wrong again, and someone else would be wearing your truth," Viktor said, tapping the knife gently under Yevgeni's eye.
Yevgeni nodded like his life depended on it - because it did.
Nastya laughs, tossing Yevgeni's wallet into a meat grinder. The sound of shredding plastic fills the silence.
NASTYA patted his cheek "Run along now. And pray I don't call."
They watch him stumble out of the warehouse on his heels.
Viktor lights a cigarette. Nastya plucks it from his lips and takes a drag with a grin of many meanings.
Nastya and Viktor drive in tense silence—until they hit a seedy Moscow alley, tailing one of Lev's couriers who'd peeled off from a cash drop.
The courier, a twitchy bastard in a stained tracksuit, ducks into a doorway, haggling with a skeletal figure—some junkie haggling over a baggie of powder.
The deal sours fast; the junkie pulls a rusty shiv, slashing at the courier's arm.
Blood sprays, the courier staggers, and the junkie snatches the bag, bolting toward a pile of trash where an old woman scavenges for cans.
Viktor's out of the car before Nastya can blink, snagging a rusted iron pipe from the alley floor.
The world narrows to the junkie's skull. Three months of forced muscle, steroids, and fury find their outlet.
The pipe connected with a sickening crack, and the junkie dropped hard, limp as laundry. Viktor's breath hissed through his teeth.
The old woman shrieks, dropping her sack of cans, and scrambles away, leaving the junkie's prize—a crumpled baggie—on the wet pavement.
Nastya doesn't flinch. Instead, she smiles—approvingly.
"Now that's fucking amazing. It kinda turns me on."
Nastya hums Kalinka while prepping a 50-gallon drum of hydrofluoric acid, her designer gloves clashing with the horror.
VIKTOR kicking the corpse into the drum "You sure this would do the trick? My dentist said enamel's tough."
NASTYA stirs the acid. "Everything dissolves if you're patient. Except stupidity—ask Dmitri."
The acid hissed, the body disappearing in the rising steam. The acid hissed violently as the remains broke down - slow, steady, terrible.
VIKTOR watched with fascination "Huh. Like my ex-wife's personality."
NASTYA grinning, snaps a photo of the melting corpse "Aww. You should send this to Yevgeni—'Wish you were here!'"
Viktor actually considers it. A bright idea pops up in his head. He lights a cigarette off the acid fumes.
"I'll show it to Lev instead as Yev's body."
"Then you should be prepared to tell him something about how I got involved. He knows this is my specialty." Nastya said, expecting an answer.
VIKTOR ponders on what she said for a bit and says nothing "How many bodies do you think this vat's swallowed?"
NASTYA counting on fingers "Including yours if you keep smoking near it?… Twelve."
Nastya dumps a bucket of lye into the drum. The mixture erupts, bubbling over with a rainbow sheen.
VIKTOR raising an eyebrow:
"That's… not acid."
NASTYA innocently "Oops. Forgot the recipe." Beat. "Kidding. It's peroxide—makes the mess sparkle."
Nastya wiped gore from her gloves, watching Viktor light a cigarette off the acid fumes.
The smell—burning flesh and peroxide—dragged her back. Ten years old, hiding in a closet. Mama Alina's voice through the door: "You promised, Lev! You swore it was just business!" A gunshot. Silence. Then Lev lied to the Bratva council: "Chechen dogs killed her."
Nastya's fingers found the scar on her ribs—Dmitri's ninth birthday, when she'd shoved him behind her as Lev brought his belt down. "Weak," he'd snarled. "Like your mother."
"You're smiling," Viktor noted.
Nastya flicked a tooth at the acid vat. "Just counting how many fathers this vat's eaten."
A bubble rose to the surface - maybe a knuckle, maybe not. The vat hissed and fumed like a chemical storm.
Viktor turned his face away, the acrid smoke biting his throat. "I hope this ends up being worth the stink," he muttered.
Nastya smirked. "Always is."
They hose down the floor.
Viktor accidentally sprays Nastya's boots. She stares.
VIKTOR deadpan "Oops. Forgot the recipe."
Nastya punches him in the kidney.
Viktor laughs through the pain. They lock up, leaving the drum bubbling like a witch's cauldron.
MORNING
Lev's study—a grotesque mix of oligarch luxury and mafia menace. Blood-red Persian carpets, a mounted bear head with diamond eyes, and a massive oak desk stained with vodka rings. Viktor stands at attention, reeking of acid and lies.
Lev lounges behind the desk, cleaning a gold-plated TT pistol. Dmitri lurks by the fireplace, smirking into his whiskey.
VIKTOR sliding his phone across the desk
"Target eliminated. Thoroughly."
Lev picks up Viktor's phone. He studies the bubbling face, the floating teeth. His nostrils flare—acid stench still clinging to Viktor's clothes.
LEV dryly "Hydrofluoric. Nastya's signature." He slides the phone back to Viktor. "She hold your hand, Viktor? Or just aim it for you?"
VIKTOR blank-faced "I don't ask for help."
Dmitri snorts into his drink. Lev's smile drops like a guillotine.
LEV suddenly jovial, pouring two shots "You know, I've noticed how you look at my daughter. Like a dog at a butcher shop." Slides one shot to Viktor. "Admire the meat, tovarisch. But lick your tongue?" Cocks the TT. "You lose the tongue."
Silence.
"Understood."
DMITRI muttered "Bullshit. He's picturing her right n—"
LEV cut him off "Enough." Stands, straightens his $10k suit. "Dmitri. Take Viktor to collect from Anton. Show him how we educate fools."
Dmitri's grin returns. Sharp as a scalpel.
"With pleasure." Dmitri grinned
Viktor turns to leave. Lev's voice stops him at the door. "Oh, and Viktor? Burn those clothes. You smell like Nastya's bad decisions."
Dmitri barks a laugh. Viktor doesn't. The door clicks shut behind them.
A black BMW M5 tears through Moscow's outskirts, rain slashing the windows. Dmitri drives like he's being chased.
Viktor stares at his reflection in the glass—Viktor's face, Drey's eyes. The stereo plays Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Irony tastes like blood today.
DMITRI side-eyeing Viktor "You smile at my sister like a starving man at a banquet. Stop it."
VIKTOR not looking at him "Then marry her yourself. Keep it in the family—tradition, no?"
Dmitri slams the brakes. Tires screech. The music skips.
DMITRI gripped the wheel "You forget who you're talking to, prison rat."
VIKTOR finally turning, slow "No. I remember exactly who cries to Papa when his knife gets stuck."
A beat. Dmitri's jaw twitches. He accelerates—hard.
The dealer's warehouse: rusted shelves, the stink of spoiled cocaine and fear.
Anton, a twitchy weasel in a Gucci tracksuit, backs into a forklift.
ANTON hands up "I-I'll get the money! Next week!"
DMITRI pulled out pliers, grinning "You said that last week." Grabs Anton's pinky.
VIKTOR snorting "Nail-pulling's for women and pussies."
Silence. Then—
Tire iron cracks Anton's right hand. Fingers snap like kindling.
Anton screams. Viktor watches—detached. Like it's someone else's hands swinging the metal.
Kneecap splinters. Anton writhes. Dmitri steps back, suddenly a spectator.
Final crunch: Viktor pries Anton's jaw open, smashes three teeth with the iron's edge.
VIKTOR wiping blood on Anton's tracksuit:
"48 hours. Or I take the tongue you lie with."
Anton whimpers. Dmitri stares. The violence hangs in the air, thicker than the copper stench.
Outside, rain soaks Viktor's shirt. Dmitri paces, phone to ear. Viktor lights a cigarette, listens just close enough.
DMITRI hissing "Pa, he's—too good at this. Like he enjoys it." Pause. Glances at Viktor.
VIKTOR strolled past "No, worse. He understands it."
Dmitri freezes. Viktor flicks his cigarette into a puddle. It hisses like Anton's screams.