It’s not a grand gesture. There’s no warning, no flourish. Just a flicker of something in his eyes, something deep and primal that surges up through him with the kind of speed I’d forgotten was possible
In a flurry of motion, his hand reaches for the knife strapped to the guard his thigh, slashing the knife upward with jagged desperation. He doesn’t go for the guards, doesn’t aim to take them down in one swift motion. His target is himself, the steel cuffs.
The pain doesn’t seem to matter to him, the blood that drips freely from his raw wrists as he frees himself from his bonds. A part of me knows it’s an act of defiance, a final cry for freedom. He’s willing to sacrifice everything, his body, his life, just to make the smallest break in this cold, suffocating prison we’ve been forced into.
Fingers close around the knife hilt, and he jerks it out of its sheath in one fluid motion. The first guard’s eyes widen in surprise, his hand already going to the weapon at his waist. But Petrov is faster. The blade plunges deep into the guard’s throat before he can even draw his gun, the sound of the blow so sickeningly wet that I can feel it in my gut.
He retrieves the knife, his hand moves with a deadly precision. In one swift motion, he hurls the knife. It spins through the air, catching the dim light before striking the ceiling above me with a sharp, metallic clang. The rope snaps, and the noose falls away, leaving me gasping for air as the weight around my neck disappears.
My hands, still cuffed behind me, feel like dead weight, but I can’t afford to wait. I shift, muscles screaming in protest, and use every ounce of strength to twist my arms around. The sharp metal of the cuffs digs into my wrists as I maneuver them in front of me. The sharp, grinding pain from my shoulders is almost unbearable, but I don’t stop.
I lunge forward, catching the guard off-guard. I don’t care about technique. I don’t care about strategy. I don’t care about anything except the burning need to break free.
My hands snap to the guard’s throat, fingers digging deep intothe soft flesh, twisting, forcing him to the ground. My vision is blurred by adrenaline, my body moving with the fury of someone who has been trapped too long. The guard’s gun slips from his hands as I drive my knee into his chest, keeping him pinned. His breath comes in frantic, panicked gasps, but I don’t let go. I don’t stop.
Suddenly, a flash of cold steel presses against my skin. The guard, desperate, manages to reach a hidden knife from his belt. With a jagged motion, he slashes across my face, the sharp edge tearing through the flesh between my eyes. I feel the warm liquid—blood—pouring down my face, blurring my vision, but I don’t flinch. I don’t care.
His eyes bulge, panicked and wide with terror, but I don’t relent. I shove my thumb into the soft tissue of his eyes, using the leverage to push deeper, harder, until I hear the sickening pop of his eyeballs giving way. His screams turn to gurgles as blood pours from the sockets, and still, I tighten my hold.
With one final gurgle, his body goes still. The knife slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor as he drops lifeless beneath me.
We killed them all.
The room is eerily silent now, nothing but the ragged sound of my breathing filling the space. My heart pounds against my ribs, my fingers aching from the force of it all. Blood pools beneath the bodies, thick and dark, staining the cold floor. The weight of what I’ve done presses down on me, but I shove it aside. There’s no time for hesitation.
I step over one of the corpses with slow, deliberate motions. My fingers dig into the dead guard’s pockets, searching. I see the flicker of something metallic: a key.
I don’t wait. My wrists burn as I twist the key into the lock, the metal biting against raw flesh.Click.The cuffs snap open, and I tear them away, the weight of them hitting the floor with a dull clang.
I exhale sharply, flexing my stiff fingers, my skin red and bruised where the restraints had held me. My freedom tastes sharp, electric.
My body is in so much pain, but the adrenaline suppresses all of it.
I hear the unmistakable sound of reinforcements rushing down the hall. More guards are coming. It’s only a matter of time before we’re overrun, before they put an end to this tiny sliver of freedom we’ve carved out for ourselves.
Petrov and I share a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between us. We don’t have time to savor the kills. We don’t have time to think. We only have time to act.
“Move,” I growl, reaching for the fallen weapon. I don’t care that it’s not mine. I don’t care that it feels foreign in my hand. It’s a tool. A tool to help me survive.
Petrov moves without hesitation, pulling himself towards the door. We don’t speak; there’s no need for words between us now. We both know that this moment of freedom won’t last long if we don’t move.
The door bursts open with a crash, and the sound of boots pounding against concrete fills the hallway. I don’t stop. Petrov doesn’t stop. We rush into the darkened hallway, the sounds of combat echoing around us, drowning out everything else. I fire the gun once—twice—hitting two more guards before they even have time to react.
But Petrov; he’s slowing down.
I glance at him, and that’s when I see it. The blood. It’s pouring out of his wrists. He’s losing blood fast. Too fast.
He stumbles, his face pale, his breath ragged, but he refuses to stop. He keeps moving, his determination burning in his eyes.
“We have to—” I start to say, but the words die on my tongue as Petrov collapses to his knees in front of me.
Fuck.
I grunt as I make my way over to him.
I pull at him, trying to drag him along, my hands gripping his blood-soaked shirt. This bastard is heavier than I expected, dragging his feet, his breath coming in sharp, labored gasps. The blood loss is slowing him down, draining him, and I feel the weight of it, both his and mine, as though every step I take brings us closer to the inevitable. I can hear the footsteps of more guards drawing nearer, the sound of them multiplying with every passing second.
‘‘Come on, Petrov!’’ I snarl, my voice rough with the urgency that claws at my chest.
