The water is steaming. Too hot. I don’t care.
I plunge my hands and forearms into the scalding water.
The pain is blinding.
It burns. God, it burns. I hold them under until the water turns pink with my own blood. I pull them out. Blistered. Steady. But when I make a fist, my fingers close. When I flex, the tendons respond.
“Everyone out except Luka.” My voice is steadier now, the shivering finally starting to subside. “Now.”
Chernov hesitates. “He’s my Pakhan—”
“And he’ll be your dead Pakhan if you’re standing over my shoulder asking stupid questions while I’m trying to keep him alive.” I meet his eyes, and I don’t know what he sees in my face, but it makes him step back. “Out.”
They go.
I unzip the field kit with hands that are finally, finally working. Scalpel. Forceps. Suture kit. Gauze. Local anesthetic that expired six months ago. Not enough. Not nearly fucking enough.
But it has to be enough.
I turn to Roman.
His eyes are open. Barely. Grey slits tracking my movements across the room. He’s trying to focus, trying to stay consciousthrough the pain and the blood loss and the hypothermia still working through his system.
“How bad?” The words come out slurred, barely intelligible.
I should lie. Give him comfort.
“Bad.” The truth scrapes my throat raw. “The bullet’s in your abdomen. Could have hit your liver. It could be lodged against your spine. I won’t know until I open you up.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“No.” I pick up the scalpel. My hand is still trembling, but it’s a human tremor now, nerves and fear, not hypothermia. “I’ve watched. I’ve assisted. I’ve never cut into anyone by myself.”
“Anya.” His hand finds my wrist. Weak. Bloody. But his grip is there, and something in his expression looks like peace. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.” His mouth moves in something that might be a smile. “Already decided. You don’t get to doubt yourself now.”
I want to scream at him. Want to tell him that trust isn’t enough, that faith doesn’t substitute for surgical training.
“I need you conscious. I need you to tell me if I hit something wrong.”
“Da.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“I know.” His grip tightens. “Do it anyway.”
I pour ethanol over the wound.
His whole body seizes, back arching off the table, tendons standing out in his neck, and the sound he makes isn’t a scream because he’s biting it back, swallowing it, choking on it. Luka shoves a leather belt between his teeth, and Roman bites down so hard his jaw creaks.
I cut.
The scalpel parts skin, and the sound he makes through the belt isn’t human—it’s animal, pure nerve-ending agony thatechoes off the concrete walls. His eyes roll back. His body goes limp.
“Roman?” I grab his jaw with my free hand. “Roman!”
