She opened up. Trusted me with her trauma, hoping I would find solace in it.
The living room is to my right, a simple couch and a coffee table littered with half-read books and an abandoned mug of tea. A blanket is draped over the armrest, the faintest imprint of Ada’s presence still lingering.
The kitchen is just beyond, separated by a worn wooden archway. It smells faintly of coffee and cinnamon, remnants of mornings that feel like they happened to someone else. The counters are clean, the sink empty. A single plate and glass sit by the drying rack, mine from this morning, though I barely remember eating.
I move on.
The bathroom is small but functional, lined with white tiles that reflect the dim glow from the hallway. The mirror above the sink is streaked from where the last shower left its mark, the air still faintly scented with Ada’s shampoo. I reach for the light switch, and the fluorescent bulb flickers before settling into a steady glow.
I look up.
The girl in the mirror stares back at me, hollow-eyed and tired.
I look at her the way Dr. Monroe looks at me, like I’m something to be studied, dissected. The shadows under my eyes have deepened, my cheekbones sharper than I remember. My hair is unbrushed, tangled from where I ran my fingers through it on the subway. My skin looks dull, washed out beneath the artificial light.
This is what surviving looks like.
Chapter 7
A Dangerous Game
with New Allies
Aslanov
Something has changed.
The air is thick with it, a shift too subtle for most to notice, but I am not most. I feel it in the way the guards move: tighter, more controlled. Less lazy. More aware. A storm is coming, and they know it.
The food comes late tonight. Hours past when it should have. When the slot in the door screeches open, a tin tray slides through. Gruel. Stale bread. The usual filth. But my stomach clenches at something else. A scent.
Blood.
Not mine.
My hand closes around the bread automatically, but my focus is on the shadows beneath the door, on the tension in the silence outside. A whisper. Footsteps too quick to be routine. Someone is hurt. Someone has spilled blood.
Petrov?
I press my back against the cold wall, listening. The walls between the cells are thick, designed to keep us alone even in captivity, but I know he’s there. I hear his breathing at night, shallow, steady. But tonight, I hear nothing.
I press my knuckles against the damp concrete. A silent signal.
Tap. Tap.
Nothing.
A slow rage burns in my chest. If they killed him, they made a mistake. A man is worth more alive than dead, and Petrov is no different. If he’s not responding, he’s either unconscious, or worse.
The door to my cell opens with a mechanical screech, and the moment is too sudden, too sharp. My body reacts before my mind catches up, muscles protesting at the strain, chains rattling around my wrists. They’re heavy, designed to ensure that I’m unable to break free, unable to fight. I stand slowly, forcing myself to take steady steps, my joints creaking with every movement. The guards outside are faceless in their black tactical gear, masks covering their features. They don’t speak, but their presence is like a weight on my chest. One of them motions for me to move forward, and I comply without a word, not wanting to make the mistake of showing weakness.
They drag me through the narrow hall, the smell of iron and sweat in the air, the harsh lights buzzing overhead. We pass by the other cells, silent, empty, until I stop in front of Petrov’s. His body is slumped against the wall, barely conscious. His hands are bound tightly, and blood trickles down from a wound at his temple. His dark hair sticks to his forehead in damp clumps, the red staining his skin. His face is a mask of exhaustion and pain, a man broken by whatever torture they’ve subjected him to.
His chest rises and falls unevenly, like every breath is a struggle. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils dilated, but there’s still a flicker of recognition when he sees me. His gaze sharpens for a brief moment, and then, without a word, he lifts his hand, slow, deliberate. He forms a quick, discreet sign with his fingers, the shape of the Bratva’s secret gesture. It’s a signal of solidarity, of alliance. It’s subtle, but it means everything.
I return the sign with a nod, understanding his message. Thismight be the only time to form an ally with this man ever.
The guards take no notice of the exchange, too busy with their orders to care about the silent communication between us. They pull Petrov from the floor, dragging him away with no more care than they would a sack of grain. His head lolls forward, but I see the silent defiance in the curve of his lips, a challenge in the face of certain death.
