The sun dipped low over a vast lake, its golden light shimmering across the glassy surface like liquid fire. A gentle breeze rustled the branches of the lone sakura tree perched at the edge of the cliff, scattering petals that danced toward the water below. And there, seated on the cliff's edge, a man leaned against the ancient trunk with the ease of someone who had watched a thousand sunsets and was still undecided if he liked them.
He wore a faint smirk, the kind that betrayed secrets too absurd to be lies and too honest to be jokes. His dark coat fluttered slightly in the wind, and when he turned his face toward the audience—yes, you—he lifted one hand in a casual wave.
"Well, hello there, readers. Or watchers, depending on whether this ever gets made into a movie. Fingers crossed." He gave a cheeky wink. "Now, you're probably wondering who the hell I am. I'd be wondering too. For the last century or so, I've been known as Jinx Tyrell. Yeah, that's right—that Tyrell. Like the house from A Song of Ice and Fire. Met ol' George back in the seventies. Saved his ass from choking on a cherry cola. In gratitude, he named a great house after me."
He paused, picking at a sakura blossom.
"Hell, I even introduced him to Howard Stark once. Long story. Point is, you don't know me yet—but you will. And sure, the beginning is too damn long for the author to write right now, seeing as his lazy ass is probably drinking a milkshake while half-assing this—"
Suddenly, he stopped mid-rant and looked up. A meteor blazed across the sky, barreling straight toward him.
"Jesus Christ! Are you kidding me? Hey!" he shouted up at the heavens. "You're drinking a milkshake while writing this?!"
The meteor fragmented into a swirling murder of crows, black feathers eclipsing the sky before they vanished altogether. In their wake, a single phrase lingered in the air, spelled in flickering light:
"You're right."
Jinx groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah, I know. Geez. Still, I gotta respect the guy—after all, he did give me his name. And after everything I've been through…"
He trailed off for a moment, eyes distant.
"Oh, you want the backstory? Fine. I'll give you the short version—about two paragraphs, give or take. Then we're gonna Doctor Who this thing. You won't see me for a bit, but I'll pop in now and then. Anyway, you'll pick up the full picture over time. Think of this as your cursed introduction."
With that, he pulled an iPhone 14 from somewhere deep in his pants, thumbed through notes, and began reading aloud.
**"Born in the late 1800s, during the grim backdrop of Jack the Ripper's reign, my story began where all tragedies do—with love that wasn't meant to be. My father, a Romanov noble, had the gall to fall for a British tourist. Scandalous, right? They planned to escape together. But, of course, Grandfather Romanov had other plans. Their rebellion ended in blood and heartbreak. That heartbreak? Me.
My birth cost my mother her life. I never knew her—never heard her laugh or felt her arms around me. But I did inherit a few things: her name for me, Jeanyx Romanov, and a delicate panjas bracelet etched with snowflakes. That bracelet was my fourth birthday gift, a rare moment of sentimentality from a man too far gone in grief to raise a child. My father was broken, drowning in vodka and regret. His love turned to fists, and my childhood became a symphony of bruises and silence. But inside, something different burned—a refusal to break, a strength I couldn't yet name. I was strong, yes, stronger than most. But I didn't fight back. I just... wanted him to love me. Pathetic, I know.
Instead of fighting, I escaped into books, blades, and brushstrokes. I learned everything I could—languages, art, war. I became a shadow that could charm or kill with equal skill. But none of it was enough. At eighteen, I ran. I joined the military. Found a purpose. People called me a prodigy. Others called me a ghost. During World War I, I fought in the mud and the madness. For eight long years, I served. Then I failed—just once—and it shattered me. Guess that's where the story really starts."**
Jinx looked up from the screen and gave a lopsided smile.
"Well, there you have it. Some parts are missing, but don't worry—you'll get the full trauma tour later. For now, buckle up. This story's gonna get weird. And bloody. And maybe a little beautiful."
He lit a joint, took a long drag, and exhaled toward the sky. Smoke curled like a serpent around his head as the sun finally dipped below the lake, plunging the world into twilight.
And just like that, the scene faded into another.
(May 20, 1915 — Somewhere in the Carpathian Plain)
The truck rumbled across the wind-brushed plains, its heavy wheels slicing through tall grass and patches of half-frozen mud. Nine soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder in the armored compartment, rifles resting against their knees, eyes vacant or half-closed. The sun hovered just above the horizon, bleeding gold and fire across the landscape as distant artillery echoed like gods clearing their throats.
Among the soldiers sat a man who seemed carved from a different stone.
Jeanyx Romanov was not dressed any differently from the others, but somehow, he wore his uniform like a shadow wears form—defined but ungraspable. His black gloves, his weathered coat with a faint silver thread along the collar, his calm breathing—it all spoke of someone long used to war, and longer used to surviving it. His gaze moved from face to face with the subtle attention of a predator measuring the wind.
Across from him sat a young soldier—barely out of boyhood, no older than nineteen—fidgeting with the strap of his rifle, his boots tapping faintly against the steel floor.
Jeanyx leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Почему ты нервничаешь, молодой человек?"("Why are you nervous, young one?")
The boy startled, looking up as if pulled from a nightmare.
"Извините, сэр. Просто... у меня плохое предчувствие."("Sorry, sir. It's just... I have a bad feeling.")
Jeanyx tilted his head. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened.
"Плохое предчувствие?"("A bad feeling?")
The boy nodded, his hands now clutching the wood of his rifle a little tighter.
"Да... что-то не так. Я чувствую это."("Yes... something's wrong. I can feel it.")
Jeanyx exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. He glanced out the back of the truck at the fading sun.
"Иногда эти предчувствия бывают правильными," he murmured. "Держись рядом со мной, и, может быть, мы оба выживем в этом хаосе."("Sometimes those feelings are right. Stick close to me, and maybe we'll both survive this chaos.")
The truck hit a dip, jolting them upward. Dust poured in through a cracked panel. The boy gave a quick nod and moved subtly closer.
The world outside grew redder. Shadows stretched long.
Then, the truck came to a halt before a battered building, its stone walls pocked with bullet holes, its windows black and empty. The silhouette of a once-grand manor house stood defiant against the dying light, its gates twisted open like broken arms.
Jeanyx jumped down first, giving precise hand signals to his unit.
"Fast. Clean. No mess."
They moved like ghosts. Floor by floor, they cleared the building. Enemy resistance was sharp, but disorganized—mere echoes of what it once was. Jeanyx led from the front, and the young soldier stayed close behind, ducking and mimicking his every step with mounting courage.
Blood soaked into ruined carpets. Glass crunched under boots. War had stained every inch of this place.
By the time they reached the top floor, only four of the original nine remained.
At the final door, Jeanyx raised a fist. The hallway was silent—too silent. The door was cracked.
He motioned.
Two soldiers flanked. One kicked the door inward.
Inside, dust floated like ash through a solitary beam of light that fell directly onto a leather chair. There, seated as if hosting a parlor guest, was an English officer. A cigar burned lazily between his fingers. In his lap, a worn copy of Paradise Lost.
"Surrender," Jeanyx said, stepping into the light.
The officer raised an eyebrow. He took a drag from his cigar—then snapped his fingers.
From the corners of the room, five enemy soldiers burst from the shadows, guns raised.
But Jeanyx's unit was already moving. The firefight was brutal and brief.
Muzzle flashes stuttered in the dark. Men fell like marionettes cut loose.
When the smoke cleared, only Jeanyx, the young soldier, and his second-in-command, James, remained.
The English officer still sat calmly, unbothered, his cigar now perched against his lips. The pages of his book fluttered.
Jeanyx stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
"Why are you not afraid?" he asked in English.
The man exhaled slowly. "Why should I fear the inevitable?"
Jeanyx paused. He gave a faint nod.
"I agree."
He raised his all-black 1911 and fired. The officer slumped sideways, blood blooming across the chair.
Then—another click. Cold steel touched the back of his neck.
Jeanyx turned slowly.
James stood behind him, one gun trained on Jeanyx… the other on the young soldier.
"Killing him wasn't part of our orders," James said in Russian. "He might've talked."
Jeanyx's voice was steady. "A man who doesn't fear death can't be broken. Not by us."
James tightened his grip.
"He was unarmed."
Jeanyx's gaze hardened. "Lower the gun."
"No."
Jeanyx stared at him. The room, the war, the dead around them—all fell away. Just two men now, and a boy between them.
"I taught you better than this," Jeanyx said. "Good soldiers follow orders."
But James didn't flinch.
A moment passed.
Then a shot cracked the silence.
James's body hit the ground. But in that same instant, his finger twitched—and his gun fired once more.
The bullet tore through the boy's abdomen.
"No!"
Jeanyx caught him before he fell fully, his arms wrapping around the young soldier's shoulders. Blood spilled over Jeanyx's gloves—dark, warm, and fast. Too fast.
He laid the boy down gently, ignoring the chaos behind him. The boy's eyes were wide, unfocused, mouth twitching in pain.
"You'll be okay," Jeanyx lied.
"Did… did we win?" the boy gasped.
Jeanyx forced a smile. "Yeah. You did good."
The boy let out a shuddering breath. "Then… can I sleep now?"
His voice cracked at the end.
Jeanyx's heart clenched. The war had taken many things from him—his name, his youth, his peace—but this moment pierced deeper than he expected.
He brushed a bloodied hand through the boy's hair.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, you can."
Then, with a trembling hand, Jeanyx raised his pistol, pressed it gently to the boy's forehead, and pulled the trigger.
Mercy.
Silence.
He returned to base under a blood-red sky. Filed his report. Lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
They arrested him by nightfall.
Charges: Disobedience. Unauthorized execution. Murder.
Ten soldiers tried to restrain him.
Only two left with working legs.
They dragged him in chains through frost and filth, onto a ship bound for hell.
Red Lake. A prison so far removed from civilization it didn't exist on maps. A place where traitors, monsters, and broken weapons were left to rot.
Jeanyx Romanov sat alone in his cell, staring at the rust-stained floor.
The young soldier's voice echoed in his head.
"Can I sleep now?"
And in the suffocating dark, Jeanyx whispered to no one.
"Yes… yes, you can."