"No." I shook my head, trying to find words for something I'd never really examined. "Some of us are built for this. The violence, the blood, the necessary cruelty. If I don't do it, someone else has to. Someone like my brother Nikolai, who's trying to be better than our history. Someone like Sophie, who's too good for this world. Someone like you, who saves lives instead of taking them."
I sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room. "I keep going because of my responsibility to the people I love. My family. They need someone who can do the terrible things so they don't have to. Someone who can carry the weight of that without breaking. Or at least," I amended, thinking of the sleepless nights and the kittens and the way I'd immediately come to check on her, "without breaking completely."
She was studying me now with that focused attention she probably used for diagnosis. Reading symptoms and vitals and all the things bodies betrayed when words lied.
"That's lonely," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"And it's killing you slowly."
"Probably."
"But you won't stop."
"Can't stop." I corrected. "There's a difference."
Silence settled again, but it was different now. Fuller. Like we'd admitted things that couldn't be taken back. She was still shaking, but less violently. Still crying, but just tears now, not sobs.
An idea formed, sudden and possibly stupid, but sometimes stupid ideas were the right ones.
"Come with me," I said, pushing myself to standing. Every wound protested the movement, but I ignored them. "Want to show you something."
She looked up at me, confusion replacing grief for a moment. "What?"
"Something that’s been helping. When I can't sleep." I extended my hand to her, palm up, offering but not demanding. "Trust me. Just for a few minutes."
She stared at my hand like it might bite her. I could see her calculating risks, measuring threat levels, all that survival instinct screaming warnings. But then something in her face shifted—exhaustion maybe, or just being too tired to keep fighting alone—and she reached up.
Her hand was so small in mine. Cold too, like all her blood had retreated to vital organs, leaving her extremities to fend for themselves. I pulled her up carefully, aware of how fragile she felt, how easy it would be to break her without meaning to. She swayed slightly, probably from low blood pressure after sitting so long, and I steadied her with my other hand on her elbow.
"Where are we going?" she asked, but she was already following as I led her to the door.
"My room."
She tensed immediately, hand trying to pull back, and I squeezed gently.
"Not for that," I said, meeting her eyes so she could see I meant it. "I want to show you something. Something good."
The hallway was empty—Igor hadn't returned to his post, probably figured I'd dismissed him for the night. Good. The fewer people who saw this, the better. Not because anything inappropriate was happening, but because Maya looked like she'd been crying for hours and I looked like a man about to do something stupid for a woman who wasn't mine to care about.
My room was on the same floor, other end of the compound. We walked in silence, her hand still in mine because she hadn't pulled away and I wasn't ready to let go. Her fingers had warmed slightly, or maybe mine had just gotten used to their cold.
I opened my door and drew her inside, closing it behind us with my free hand. The room was dark except for moonlight through the windows, but I didn't turn on the lights. Somehow darkness felt safer for whatever this was.
"This way," I said, leading her toward the utility room.
The door opened on silent hinges, and at first she just looked confused. It was small, meant for storage, with shelves of cleaning supplies and a hot water heater that hummed in the corner. Not the kind of place you brought someone to show them something important.
Then she heard it—a tiny mew, high and demanding.
Her whole body changed. The exhaustion didn't disappear, but something else lit up behind it, something alive and immediate. She moved past me without hesitation, drawn to the cardboard box in the corner like it was magnetic north and she was a compass needle.
"You have kittens." Not a question. A statement of wonder, like I'd just revealed I kept unicorns in my utility closet.
She dropped to her knees beside the box, and I watched her transform. The broken woman who'd been sobbing in a corner five minutes ago disappeared, replaced by someone whose hands moved with careful purpose, whose eyes sparked with something that wasn't fear or grief or shame.
The question caught me off guard, even though I'd brought her here specifically to see them. Something about the way she said it—like it was the last thing she'd ever expect from someone like me.
