The problem is that I’m beginning to remember things I’m not supposed to know.
5
Dmitri
Orlov knocks, and I already know what he’ll say. Katya isn’t buying the story anymore.
“She’s asking too many questions,” I tell him the moment he steps inside, keeping my voice low so Katya can’t hear me in the next room. “About things that don’t add up.”
Mikhail Orlov sets his medical bag on the marble counter with a humming sound that tells me he’s thinking through his response.
He gives me that look I’ve seen since I was twelve years old—part disappointment, part resignation.
The man’s been my personal doctor for more than twenty years, ever since he patched up the first set of broken ribs my father gave me during “training.”
A former military medic, now treating Moscow’s criminal elite. He never talks about the transition.
His hands are steady as a surgeon’s, scarred from years of emergency field medicine, and he’s got the kind of calm demeanor that comes from seeing too much violence to be shocked by anything anymore.
“How suspicious?” He tugs on his gloves a little too sharply, and the snap is louder than it should be.
“Enough to make me nervous. She’s noticing inconsistencies in the story, asking for records that don’t exist, and questioning why everything about her life feels foreign.”
“This was inevitable, Dmitri. Memory suppression only works for so long, especially with someone with extensive training.” He opens his medical bag and rummages through the instruments. “The mind wants to return to its natural patterns.”
“I just need more time.”
“Time for what? The woman’s training is reasserting itself whether you want it to or not.” He pauses in his setup to fix me with a direct stare. “What is your endgame?”
Before I can answer, Katya emerges from the bedroom wearing the hospital gown I brought her.
She looks small in it, vulnerable, which is the opposite of what she is.
But there’s something different in the way she moves today. She seems less lost, more aware of her surroundings.
Her eyes sweep the corners, the door, the shadows. Counting exits like she’s done it a thousand times.
Every move drags her closer to the woman she used to be—the one trained to kill men like me.
If she remembers, she’ll ruin everything. That’s why I can’t let her remember. I’ll break her down first. Twist her instincts until they serve me alone.
And God help me, I want her all the more for it.
“Mrs. Kozlov,” Orlov greets her, his voice shifting to warm professionalism as he stands and extends his hand. “Good to see you again. How are you feeling since our last visit?”
“Like I’m living someone else’s life.” I catch the way her eyes scan him from head to toe. Not checking him out; checking for notable details. Height, weight, potential threat level, probable weapons.
She shakes his hand with just enough pressure to be polite, but I notice how she positions her feet for better balance, and how she keeps her other hand free and relaxed at her side in case she needs it.
“That’s normal with retrograde amnesia.” Orlov gestures toward the dining table where he’s set up his equipment. “Your brain is rebuilding your sense of identity from scratch. It’s like learning to be yourself all over again.”
She nods but doesn’t move toward the table. Instead, she picks a spot that keeps both Orlov and me in her line of sight, with the kitchen doorway just a step away. She does it without even thinking. Smart positioning.
“The headaches have improved.” She finally walks over but chooses the chair that faces the room rather than the one Orlov intended for her to take.
“That’s excellent progress. What about the other symptoms we discussed the last time I was here? Memory flashes, disorientation?”
“The flashbacks are getting stronger. More detailed.” She settles into the chair with her spine straight and her hands resting on her thighs in a way that would allow for quick movement. “They don’t match what my husband tells me about being an art curator.”
