Every instinct I’ve honed whispers the same thing.
It’s closing in.
I open the door. Step into the hall. And stop there, standing still, listening to the silence press closer.
The hallway stretches long and dim, the kind of silence that hums against the walls. My bag drags heavy against my shoulder, the zipper biting into my palm where I clutch it too tight. I stop halfway down the corridor and glance back at the apartment door.
It looks small from here, ordinary. Four walls, a bed, a desk—nothing worth remembering. Yet I hesitate.
A note flits across my mind. Something short, sharp, final. A single line folded on the counter, left like a breadcrumb for whoever bothers to look. I picture the words scrawled in my own hand, picture them discovered in silence.
Nothing feels right. Every phrase dies in my throat before it’s written. Notes are for people who deserve explanations. No one in this world does.
I turn my back on the door. I don’t even lock it. Whoever comes after me can walk right in. Let the place be picked clean, stripped bare, like I was never here at all.
The bag shifts on my shoulder as I keep walking. The corridor hums with the buzz of an old light, flickering once above me. I’m halfway down when a sound snaps the air behind me.
A scuff. A shift.
I freeze.
My pulse surges so loud it drowns out everything. I turn, eyes sharp, body tense, waiting for movement.
Nothing.
The hallway lies empty. The apartment door still shut. Shadows cling where they always have.
I don’t trust it.
I wait a beat longer, every sense stretched thin, then force myself to move again. One step. Then another.
My heartbeat won’t settle, pounding uneven in my chest, each thud heavier than the last. I keep my hand near the inside of my coat, fingers brushing the knife hidden there. Slim, sharp, my one guarantee if things go wrong.
The main entrance is only a few feet away, but I veer off, turning down the narrow back corridor. The alley is darker, riskier—but the front opens to the street, to eyes, to cameras. I can’t take that chance.
The alley smells of damp and gasoline. The air is thick, fog curling low, muffling the hum of the city beyond. My shoes strike wet pavement, too loud in the silence. Every corner feels like a mouth waiting to close around me.
I keep moving, back straight, chin high, knife close at hand. I tell myself I’ll disappear. New city, new name, new life. No Bratva, no blood, no Alexei Sharov shadowing my every breath.
I tell myself that’s the plan.
Except deep down, I know.
I’m not getting away.
The alley stretches ahead, slick with rain, the lamplight spilling weak gold onto the pavement. My breath fogs in the air, ragged despite the steady pace I force myself to keep. Each step sounds too sharp, echoing against brick, chasing itself back to me. I tell myself it’s only my nerves, only my imagination, but I don’t believe it.
My hand stays curled near the knife. The weight of it is a comfort, a reminder I’m not defenseless. Still, the thought circles in my head—how little steel matters against the kind of power hunting me.
I replay it all as I move: the warehouse, the files, the convoy burning. Faces I know turned to corpses. Each one a piece of evidence pointing closer to me, even if no one can prove it yet. Someone will. Soon.
My shoes splash through a shallow puddle. The sound ricochets, and for a heartbeat I hear another step layered under mine. I whirl, knife half drawn.
Nothing.
The alley yawns empty, shadows stacked against the walls. My pulse hammers, my grip too tight.
I turn back and keep walking, faster now.
