I set the tray on my lap again, but the sight of food turns my stomach. The eggs, the fruit, the toast—all of it looks like it belongs to someone else’s life, someone who isn’t sitting here with her head spinning and her chest heavy with a secret she isn’t sure how to share.
My fingers toy with the corner of a napkin as I stare down, wondering if telling Niko would be wise.
Would he be furious? Would he see it as weakness, as another complication in the middle of a war? Or would he—my breath catches—would he surprise me again? Would he see it as something else entirely?
The questions claw at me, but no answers come.
I swallow hard and push the tray away slightly. Appetite gone.
I sit there, still and small against the expanse of the bed, trying to look composed when inside I feel like I’m unraveling.
The door clicks open, and Niko strides back in, shoulders tight, eyes glued to his phone. His expression is carved from stone, but I can see it—something’s wrong.
I straighten, the words about my own body dying in my throat. My nausea, the fatigue, the terrifying realization…they scatter like dust under the weight of his presence.
“What is it?” I ask, the question tumbling out before I can stop myself. My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.
He lowers the phone slowly, almost reluctantly, and his gaze finds mine. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
For a second, he doesn’t answer. Just stares, as if weighing how much to tell me.
And in that second, I forget entirely about myself. All I see is him, and the storm in his eyes.
Niko exhales, the sound sharp, controlled, but I can see the tension running through him like a wire about to snap. He drags a hand down his face and finally speaks.
“A bomb went off last night,” he says, his voice flat but edged in steel. “The clinic. Three dead—two of my soldiers and a young doctor.” His gaze drops for the first time, as if the weight is too heavy to hold. “Her name was Martha.”
The air in the room shifts, cold and heavy. My stomach twists.
Martha.
I know that name. I know her face. We never spoke—staff weren’t supposed to—but I remember the first time I saw her in the clinic. She walked past me, carrying a tray of meds, and for one dizzy second, I thought I was looking at myself in a mirror. Same shape of the jaw, same curve of the cheekbones. She was slimmer, sharper around the edges, while I was…fuller. Softer. But the resemblance was there. Enough to make me pause. Enough that it stayed with me.
“She looked like me,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “Not exactly, but…close. The first time I saw her, I thought we could have been sisters.”
Niko’s gaze sharpens instantly. He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t even blink. Slowly, he nods, his jaw set like stone.
“Demyan said the same thing on the phone.”
A chill ripples through me, crawling under my skin. My breath stutters, the room suddenly too small, too tight.
“This isn’t right,” I whisper, shaking my head as if that alone could undo it. “This isn’t—” My throat closes up. “Was it Anton? Tell me it’s not him.”
Niko’s silence is louder than any answer. His jaw works, muscles flexing like he’s grinding the truth into dust between his teeth.
My hands tremble in my lap. “God, Niko….” My voice cracks, splintering under the weight of it. “If it’s him—if he did this—then it should’ve been me. Don’t you see? She looked like me. She wasn’t me. And now she’s—”
The word dies before I can finish it, choked off by the horror rising in my chest. Dead. A woman who resembled me is dead.
Niko moves before I can spiral further, his hand gripping mine, strong and grounding, like an anchor against the storm tearing me apart. His eyes blaze when they meet mine, hard with certainty.
“No. Don’t you dare take this on yourself. This was him. His game. His message. And it’s on his hands, not yours.”
“Niko, no, this isn’t right. How could Anton have done this?”
His eyes narrow, a storm gathering there. “Because there’s more.”
The words slice through me. My breath stalls. “What…more?”
