For a moment, I thought the world might just end right there, in that wet alley, curled into a ball while the men decided what to do with what was left of me. But then, from somewhere behind us, a new shadow cut through the lantern light, and the whole night shifted.
"Let her go." The voice was American. Flat, unhurried, deadly calm. The kind of voice that didn't need to shout, because it had already won the argument.
The men paused, just for a heartbeat, and I saw them trying to judge whether this was a bluff or a real problem. The cap guy turned, eyeing the American up and down. "No trouble," he said in English, the accent thick as soup. "We are friends, Amerikanets. We offer trade."
The American didn't move. He didn't even blink. "You're going to drop the cigarettes," he said. "And you're going to walk away. Now."
The men looked at each other. The one with the cigarettes tried to laugh, made a show of lighting up right in the American's face. "You want trade?" he said, blowing smoke. "We can trade."
The American's hand moved—a flick, almost lazy—and the cigarette snapped out of theman's mouth and into the gutter. Before he could even yelp, the American punched him, just once, but with the kind of force that made the wet air vibrate. Cap guy lunged. The American twisted sharply, slamming his shoulder into the man and driving him sideways with his full weight, sending the Russian crashing into the trash bin. Metal rang. The Russian swore and came up swinging, and the American put him back down with a short, mean punch that made my teeth ache just watching. He looked in my direction for a moment, and in that fraction of time, I could have sworn his eyes flashed golden. But I put it away as a trick of the light and my stressed mind.
It took less than a handful of seconds. Then there was only breathing, mine, ragged and wet; the American's, steady, loud in the narrow space.
"Go," he said without looking away from them.
The men picked themselves up, spat words I couldn't hear, and shoved off into the street, shoulders hunched against any more consequence.
I hadn't realized I'd crawled into the corner until my spine felt the cold of the wall and my palms felt grit. My whole body shook—knees knocking, teeth clicking like a little machine—and I hated it, hated that they would have seen it if they'd stayed one second longer.
The American crouched, slow, like you do for a dog that might bite. "Hey," he said, voice roughened down to something almost gentle. "You're okay."
But I wasn't. When his hands hovered and then settled, warm and careful, on my arms, I grabbed his sleeves like I was falling off a roof. I didn't want to. I did it anyway. I pressed my face into a jacket that smelled like rain and oil and the high metallic tang of airplanes, and my breath stuttered against his chest in useless, ugly sobs.
"There," he said, because what else was there to say? "There. There. You're safe."
I didn't know his name. I didn't care. I clung harder, shaking so badly I thought my bones would come apart, and he held on like he had nothing better to do than hold me together. He was so warm. So incredibly warm, and the way his heart beat under my ear had a calming effect.
"Breathe," he said, low against my hair. "That's it. In. Out."
I did what he asked because the alternative was drowning.
Against everything inside me, I heard my own voice say, very small, "Don't let go."
"I won't," he promised.
And—for the space of a few heartbeats in a city built of ruins—he didn't.
Berlin — July 1, 1948, Thursday morning
I kepthold of her until her shoulders stopped trembling like a leaf in the wind. Her fingers dug into the fabric of my jacket, clinging to it like a promise the coat itself had made to keep her safe.
"Did they—" I started. The question was blunt. Stupid. Useless. I wanted to find the men who'd cornered her and turn them into ash where they stood. I closed my eyes before I could finish the thought, because the dragon inside me was already roaring, already imagining bone and fire and screams cut short. "Did they hurt you?"
She shook her head so slowly it felt like watching someone move through water. "No," she said, her voice small but steady. "You came just in time. Thank you."
It wasn't the wordnothat soothed the dragon. It was her voice. The sound of it slid through me, through the heat and the rage, and something ancient in my chest stilled. Never in my life had a voice affected me like that, not acommand, not an order, not even fear. The dragon quieted, not gone, not forgiving, but listening.
Her hands loosened their grip. The shivering slowed, fading to an afterthought. I eased her back until she could stand on her own. She was so slight. Her coat was little more than a suggestion of warmth. I shrugged out of my leather jacket and had to crouch to settle it around her shoulders. The fabric smelled of fuel and rain and the faint iron tang that clung to everything I owned. When I wrapped it around her, she swallowed hard, like warmth was returning to places that had forgotten what it felt like.
"Let me take you home," I said, because the words felt safer than thinking.
She looked up at me then, eyes huge and raw in the alley light, and the fear flared again, sharp and animal, like someone had yanked a string tight inside her chest.
"It's okay," I said quickly. "I won't hurt you." I hesitated, then added, softer, "I'm Gideon."
"Inga," she answered automatically, as if the name had slipped out before she could stop it. She blinked, surprised by the sound of herself saying it.
She nodded—not to me, but to herself—then looked away. For a heartbeat, her body saidnoeven if her mouth didn't. Then her chin tipped, just slightly, pointing down the lane to the right.
