The man’s body drops. Just drops like someone cut the strings. A puppet with no master, his head at an angle that heads don't go.
Dead.
He's dead, and I watched it happen.
I saw Ivan—my Ivan—end someone's life with his bare hands. No hesitation. No rage. No emotion at all. Like he's done this a thousand times. Like it costs him nothing. Like taking a life is as simple as breathing.
The violence he's capable of. The violence he does for me. Because of me.
That man is dead because of me.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stare at the body—the corpse, that's a corpse now, that used to be a person with thoughts and a life, and now it's meat on concrete.
My stomach lurches.
Ivan stands over the limp body like it's nothing.
This is what he is. This is what I've been ignoring. This is what’s underneath the tailored suits, gentle touches, and declarations of love.
He's a killer. A real killer. Standing five feet away from me with another man's blood on his hands.
Reality hits differently when you're standing in it, when you smell the blood. When you see how easily a person stops being a person. How quickly life becomes death. How simple it is for him.
Sirens wail. Close. Too close. Getting closer.
What the fuck?How? We're in an alley. We just got here. How do the police already know?
Unless they don't know. Unless the sirens are unrelated.
But my brain won't stop replaying it. The twist. The snap. The body dropping.
Ivan's men rush in. Pyotr first. Then Misha. Others I don't recognize. Suddenly, the alley fills with movement. Voices in Russian. Orders shouted.
The body is dragged away like trash. Like it was never a person. Like the life that ended doesn't matter.
And they're all so calm. So practiced. Like this is routine. How many times have they done this before?
I'm frozen. Watching. Processing.
"I can't." The words come without permission. Without thought. "This is—I'm just a waitress."
Nobody hears me. They're all moving. Executing a plan they've run dozens of times. Cleaning up. Disposing of evidence. Making a body disappear like it never existed.
"I'm nobody special." Louder now. To myself. To the universe. "No. I'm not built for this."
The blood. The violence. The casual way Ivan ended someone's life. The constant danger.
"I'm just... I'm normal."
Ivan's distracted, talking to Misha in rapid Russian. Gesturing. Giving orders. Not looking at me.
So I run.
I run into the Chicago night, away from the blood and the body and the reality I can't handle.
Designer heels click on wet pavement. The sound echoes off buildings. Too loud. Obvious. Leaving a trail anyone could follow.
I don't care.
