Her article sits open on the coffee table. I read the line with my name again.
Sources point to Lukyan Sharov, though the trail vanishes quickly.
Her voice from the interview plays in my mind. Confident. Warm. Clear. She speaks my name like she’s testing it on her tongue. No tremor. No hesitation.
Sharov.
She says it like it belongs to her for a moment. Like she’s studying it. Studying me.
That sound stays with me longer than the article itself.
There’s something binding in it, something I can’t brush aside as easily as I should. She wrote my name because she thought she could throw it into the world without consequence. She doesn’t know what the name carries. She doesn’t know who it pulls toward her.
Most people who mention me publicly do it with caution. Some do it with arrogance, thinking they’re untouchable. Few do it with her kind of conviction.
Truth matters. That’s what she said. Truth matters, even if it’s dangerous.
She’s wrong. In my world, truth only matters if it can be used.
Hearing her say it… it does something strange to me. It’s not anger. Not exactly. I expected to feel insulted. Challenged. Instead, I feel pulled.
Curiosity is a dangerous thing. It leads to pressure points. Weakness. Distraction.
I shouldn’t think about her beyond the risk she poses. She’s a problem to fix. A name on a screen that needs to disappear before she becomes an inconvenience.
The image of her apartment window lingers. The warm glow. The plants she keeps alive. The way she didn’t close her blinds because it didn’t occur to her that anyone would be watching.
She has no idea.
The sun begins to lighten the windows in slow streaks. Dawn creeps across the horizon. I take another drink, savoring the quiet before the day starts.
My phone buzzes. Nikolai again. He wants instructions, and he’s waiting for a decision.
I finish the drink, set the glass down, and speak the words that settle something inside me.
“Bring her to me,” I say. “Unharmed.” The line goes silent for half a beat. I add, “No mistakes. No bruises. No fear unless it comes from me.”
When the call ends, the room is quiet again. The decision sits comfortably in my chest.
She wanted the truth. Well, she’ll have it.
Chapter Three - Clara
I spend the whole week feeling like something presses against the back of my mind. It follows me through hallways, lectures, and subway rides. I keep trying to shrug it off, but it clings to me with quiet persistence.
By Wednesday, the tension sits so squarely in my chest that Eden notices the second I drop my tray across from her in the cafeteria.
“You look like shit,” she says, pushing her salad aside so she can study my face. “What’s going on?”
I stir the ice in my drink, buying myself a second before answering. “I don’t know. Something feels off lately.”
“You mean besides the fact that you got famous overnight?” She lifts her brow. “Clara, you’re on everyone’s timeline. People keep sharing your article like it’s a Marvel trailer.”
“It’s not fame,” I say. “It’s a story. A good one. That’s all.”
“Come on. Be honest. You’ve seen the comments. Half the school thinks you’re brave. The other half thinks you have a death wish.”
A few students at a nearby table glance over. One whispers something to another. I know they are talking about me. It’s not hard to tell. People look at me differently now. Some with respect. Some with something close to pity.
