"I'm here." My voice cracks on the simple words. "Maison Lyra. Ladies bathroom. Ramiz is shooting at the door and I don't know how much longer it will hold."
"Victoria." His voice is different now. Stripped of its usual steady calm. The anchor I've learned to lean on without realizing it. The foundation I've come to trust.
His voice is shaking.
Zakhar doesn't shake.
Zakhar is the one who stays composed when the world burns. Zakhar is the steady hand, the calm voice, the unwavering presence that makes everyone else believe things will be okay.
But his voice is shaking now.
For me.
"We're coming. Do you hear me? We're coming for you right now."
The fracture in his voice breaks what's left of my composure.
He's scared. Zakhar, who never shows fear, is scared for me.
"Okay," I whisper.
The word is inadequate. Pathetic. But it's all I have.
"Hold tight." Background noise filters through. Engines. Shouting. Movement. Maksim's voice in the distance giving orders. Alexei cursing. The particular chaos of violence preparing to be unleashed. "We love you."
Three words. Simple. Direct. Impossible.
They love me.
My throat closes. Vision blurs and I press harder against the wall to stay upright. My free hand grips the vanity so tight my fingers ache.
I'm not alone anymore.
The thought is terrifying and freeing in equal measure.
I've spent years building walls. Making sure no one could get close enough to hurt me again.
But these men dismantled those walls piece by piece. Made me want things I swore I'd never want. Made me believe in safety I was certain didn't exist. Made me need them in ways that terrify me.
And now they're coming.
For me.
Another gunshot. Louder. Closer. The lock explodes inward. Metal shrieks. Wood splinters scatter across tile.
"Victoria?" Zakhar's voice sharpens. Command mixed with barely controlled panic. "Talk to me."
"I'm here." I force the words out past the tightness in my throat. "I'm still here."
"Good." His voice intimate despite the chaos. Despite the distance between us. "Stay on the line."
The door shudders again. Wood splits near the hinges. I can see faint light through the cracks now. Can see the shadow of Ramiz's body moving on the other side.
I press my back against the wall. Phone cord stretched tight. My free hand grips the vanity edge hard enough that my knuckles go white.
"They're coming," I whisper.
To myself. To the empty bathroom. To the universe that's never listened before but might be listening now.
