Sinful Games (Sinful #2) | 18+

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Until you step into the unknown, you don't know what you're made of."

― Roy T. Bennett

Alexsei

Strolling down the hallway, a thick silence hung in the air, only broken by the antiseptic smell of sanitizer, failing miserably to mask the odor of death.

As I moved, the sound of my steps echoed, giving the whole place a heavy feeling.

Finding Room 305 in this freaking maze was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

As I navigated the corridors, the open doors of the residents' rooms offered glimpses into their lives in this twilight world.

Some were peacefully tucked under blankets, keeping warm not just from the nighttime chill but also from the relentless march of time.

Others were absorbed in solitary activities, finding solace in books, the gentle glow of the TV, or lost in their own thoughts, gazing into the distance.

Even though they were all doing different things, there was this one thing that connected them all: the certainty that they were all heading towards the unknown, towards death.

I reached door 305 and slowly closed it behind me after stepping inside. The room remained unchanged—its walls still bore the same faded yellowish hue, devoid of any vibrancy, and haunted by the ghosts of past memories.

I took a seat in the lone chair beside his bed.

I always tell people that both my parents have passed, but it's just a fucking lie.

The truth is that the bastard who happens to be my father is still hanging on but just barely.

Funny coincidence, Caia works at the same retirement home where I dumped my father off six years ago.

When my mom died, it seemed like some strange turn of events that my dad suddenly fell ill with throat cancer and landed in the hospital.

He was already well into his late 50s by then.

As the cancer progressed, I made the choice to remove him from my life entirely.

Stage four throat cancer usually doesn't allow for much time, but somehow he's still hanging on, six years later.

Now, he's voiceless, reliant on a breathing machine, and rarely coherent.

Yet, in those fleeting moments of awareness, nurses say he repeatedly calls out my name.

But truth be told, I harbor no feelings for him, just a detached acknowledgment of his useless presence, a haunting reminder of my fucked-up past.

Only Volk and Igor know about him being my old man.

When I joined the Silas, I swapped Alexsei Rovanski for Alexsei Romaniev, trying to ditch my past.

I wanted absolutely nothing to do with that bastard anymore.

But, damn it, there's this twisted part of me that couldn't resist stopping by when I was back in town, just to check on him, see if he was still defying death like a stubborn son of a bitch.

Guess even death itself can't be bothered with that old bastard.

I scrutinized him with disgust—the sickly green shade of his skin, the baldness that highlighted his frailty, the faint remnants of eyebrows above lifeless eyes, and those dark, pulsating veins etched like scars across his neck.