Adam, who’d been sitting on the floor, gets up on his feet and throws himself at me. His hand immediately goes for my gun. I growl and struggle against him.
Micah cries out again.
“You can’t fucking have him,” Adam shouts as his hand wraps around the gun.
I punch him hard in the face.
He flies back, crashing into the wall. His leg is still bleeding, and he must be in massive pain, but he keeps going. He aims the gun—not at me, but at Micah.
I stop in my tracks.
“Leave now or I fucking shoot him,” Adam says.
Micah’s fear is damn near palpable in the room. His lips part, but no words come out.
He’s looking at me, not Adam, and I think he finally realizes what I’d known since I got his call: Adam is never going to let him out alive.
With speed I didn’t know I possessed, I cross the distance to Adam. He immediately redirects the gun, but I slam my arm against his. The gun drops to the floor, and a shot rings out.
I wrap my hand around Adam’s neck.
“Mishka! Are you hurt?” I ask. “The discharge did not hit you?”
“N-no,” Micah stammers. “No. Are… Are you okay?”
“I am fine,” I say, right as I punch Adam in the face again.
Adam cries out. He struggles against me, but he was never stronger than me. I hit Adam again, and again. His nose crunches under my fist, and at least one tooth dislodges from his mouth.
I keep punching him, like I’d hit Artyom. At some point Adam’s cries and whimpers grow quieter. I stomp on his bullet wound just to make him shout again.
He doesn’t get to pass out early.
He’s going to suffer. All the ways he hurt Micah, he will now feel all at once.
I realize Micah is crying, long after Adam has gone still beneath me, and I drop Adam’s body to the floor so I can turn to him.
Micah is huddled against the far wall of the bedroom, his arms wrapped around his knees.
I take one step closer, then realize how I must appear to him.
“Sorry,” I say, taking a long, deep breath. “I’ll go.” I pause, then add, “I’ll take care of the body first.”
Micah’s head snaps up, and he shakes his head. “N-no! No. Please don’t leave. Don’t leave me. I can’t… I don’t…” His teeth are chattering.
He’s going into shock.
I walk over to him and crouch down. I reach out, then realize I’m still wearing the bloodied gloves. I peel them off, but I’m still unsure.
I don’t deserve to touch him.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, my hand hovering in front of him.
“He was going to shoot me,” he says, his eyes not quite focusing on me. “He would’ve killed me.”
“Yes,” I say simply.
Micah sobs. “I didn’t think…” He hiccups, then tries again. “I didn’t think he’d go that far. I didn’t.”
