Vitor's body is feet behind me. Separated only by thin metal and upholstery.
Jelena drives. Her hands tight on the wheel. Her voice becomes a steady stream of words that barely penetrate the white noise filling my head.
"They kept all the Valkov business running," she's saying. The words coming in waves I can't quite catch. "Just eliminated the leadership so they could take control. Made it look like cleanup when really it was a takeover. They're not the heroes they pretend to be. They're the same as what came before. Worse, maybe, because they're better at hiding it."
I'm not really listening. Can't focus beyond fragments that catch like hooks.
My mind loops. Endless. Inescapable.
The tattoo on a masked man's hand years ago.
The tattoo on Vitor's chest. Dead eyes staring at nothing. Bullet hole dark and final.
The scar on Maksim's chest. Where the same mark used to be. Burned away but the shape still visible beneath new skin. Evidence of what he was. What he might still be.
This morning. Maksim's hands in my hair. His mouth on mine. The way he looked at me. Like I was his queen and he would burn the world to protect me.
Last night. All three of them claiming every part of me. The way I surrendered completely.
Was it all a lie? Calculated moves in a game I didn't know I was playing?
But beneath the shock and horror and betrayal threatening to drown me, resistance flares. Some stubborn part of me that refuses to accept the narrative being built.
Not all of it was lies. It couldn't have been. I've learned to read people. To detect deception. It's how I've survived.
The way they looked at me. Touched me. The gentleness mixed with possession. The protectiveness that felt real even when logic says it shouldn't.
But there are lies. Untold truths. Secrets stacking like bricks into walls I can't see past.
And I don't know how to separate what's real from what's not anymore.
The car stops. The sudden stillness jolts me back to awareness.
I blink. Look around without really seeing at first. Shapes and shadows resolving slowly into familiar forms.
We're at Maison Lyra. The restaurant is dark. Closed for the night. The street empty except for shadows and streetlights casting orange pools that make everything look surreal.
"We need things from the office," Jelena says. That urgent edge still in her voice. That tight control that means she's operating under stress. "Documents we might need. Maybe weapons. Then we'll go to a safe house until we figure out our next move."
The shock is wearing off. Slowly. Like ice melting in tepid water. Leaving me cold but more present. More aware.
My mind starts functioning again beyond the loop of trauma and tattoos and betrayal.
I nod. Get out of the car on unsteady legs. My heels click too loud on the pavement.
Jelena leads me to the side entrance. Uses her key. The lock clicks open with a sound that seems too loud in the quiet night.
We descend stairs to the basement level where the office is. Where we plan operations and store supplies. Where we've sat for hours strategizing rescues and extractions and justice for women the system failed.
The hallway is dark. Smells like spices from the restaurant kitchen above. Our footsteps echo too loud in the silence. Each click of my heels against concrete feels like an announcement.
Jelena opens the office door. The hinges creak slightly.
And I see him.
Ramiz Krasniqi.
Sitting behind our desk like he owns it. Like he belongs there. Gun in his hand. Barrel resting casually on the desktop.
