Then my hand lands on something worse.
A sweater, folded neat at the back of the closet. Soft cashmere. I wore it once after a late meeting, the night stretched thin with smoke and quiet, his cologne clinging sharp and smoky to the fabric. Even now, it carries a faint trace of him. I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care, but my throat tightens, my chest seizes, and for a long second I can’t breathe.
The bag waits open on the bed, but I toss the sweater hard back into the shelf. Anger sparks in me, hot and ugly. I hate the sentiment that almost pulled me under. I hate the weakness of it, the indulgence of memory. Sentiment is poison. Sentiment is how you get caught, how you hesitate when the knife should already be in motion.
The zipper rasps when I close the bag halfway. The sound is sharp, final. I freeze, listening to it echo in the silence, like I’ve declared myself guilty.
Then the images come again. The ambush.
I never saw it firsthand, but the footage plays in my mind clearer than if I had. Trucks burning in the dark. Metal groaning. Crates shattered and scattered across gravel. Men shouting in Russian, their voices panicked, cut off by gunfire. Then silence. Always silence.
Those weren’t faceless enemies. They were men I’d seen almost daily, guards who’d nodded at me in passing, men who poured drinks during meetings, men who stood outside doors I walked through. Alive one moment. Cold in unmarked graves the next.
My stomach twists. My chest grows tight. I stumble into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles go white. The porcelain is cold beneath my palms, grounding me in a way nothing else can.
This is what you wanted,I tell myself.This was always the cost.
I stare into the mirror at my pale reflection. My face looks hollow, my eyes sunken, like I’m already fading. I barely recognize her.
Justice was never going to be clean. Justice was always going to bleed. These men—violent, corrupt, merciless—have drenched themselves in blood long before mine ever spilled. They chose this world. They chose to serve under Alexei Sharov, to carry out his orders, to profit off of misery. They are not innocent.
I repeat that to myself until the words lose shape. Until they clang hollow in my ears, sharp but empty, like brass shells hitting the floor.
I splash water on my face, cold enough to sting, but it doesn’t chase away the images. I can still see the convoy burning, smell the fire, hear the silence that followed.
I can’t stay still.
I leave the bathroom and start pacing, tight circles that drag me from one corner of the apartment to the other. My nerves buzz under my skin, restless energy snapping through me like a live wire. I check the windows, the locks, the blinds, each one twice, three times. Everything looks the same. Nothing out of place.
Yet… the air feels wrong.
I’ve lived in paranoia for weeks, long enough to know when it’s in my head and when it isn’t. This isn’t in my head. There’s a weight in the room with me, invisible but certain. Like a hand pressed against the back of my neck, cold and patient.
I yank back a curtain. Nothing but the street outside, slick with rain, lamps buzzing faint. No movement. No shadows. Still, I don’t believe it.
I cross to the kitchen, check the back window. Locked. Untouched. The glass reflects me back, pale and tight, but no one else.
Still, the sense won’t leave. Something has shifted. Something is closing in.
The travel bag waits at the door now, gaping open with the last of what I’ve thrown inside. I toss in toiletries, documents, the last of the cash I’d hidden under a drawer. My hands should move faster, but they tremble, each motion slower than the last.
Not fear. Awareness.
The kind that coils in your gut when you know you’re no longer alone, even if you can’t see the proof.
My phone lies dark on the counter. I switched it off hours ago, knowing better than to leave a trace. Still, I reach for it,pressing the button, staring at the black screen like it might flicker to life with the warning I already feel in my bones.
Nothing.
I drop it back down, force my hand away. But seconds later, I find myself circling back, reaching again, checking again. As if I can’t stop. As if confirmation will soothe what instinct already screams.
It doesn’t. The screen stays dead. The silence stays heavy.
I shoulder the travel bag. The weight drags against me, not heavy enough to slow me, heavy enough to remind me what I’m walking away from.
I step to the door, my fingers lingering on the lock, listening to the quiet beyond. My pulse hammers too loud.
The apartment is stripped, the bag is packed, but I don’t feel free. I feel watched.
