The logical part of my brain, the part that had kept me alive for six months, screamed that this was a trap. Too convenient, too perfectly designed to pull me out of safety. Hit me right in my weakness—innocent people suffering because of proximity to me. They knew I was a doctor. Knew I'd been helping people. Knew I couldn't abandon someone who needed me.
But what if it wasn't a trap?
What if Frank was really huddled in some warehouse, terrified, while men watched his grandmother's store? What if Mrs. Zi—who'd fed me congee and called me too skinny and never asked questions—was in danger because her grandson had helped me?
I thought about all the people who'd risked themselves for me. The veterinarian who'd let me use his basement. The gang members who'd paid in cash and kept their mouths shut. Frank and his grandmother. Even Kostya, putting his entire family at risk by protecting me.
Everyone who helped me ended up marked. Ended up in danger. It was like I was patient zero of some violence epidemic, spreading danger to anyone who showed me kindness.
The shower was still running. Kostya's voice carried through the door—he was humming something in Russian, low and tuneless. Happy. He was happy, probably replaying the afternoon's absurdity, the way we'd laughed until we couldn't breathe.
I should show him the text. Should walk into that bathroom right now, hand him my phone, let him handle it. He'd know immediately it was a trap. Would send his men to check the warehouse, confirm Frank was either safe at home or already dead. Would lock me down harder, add more security, make sure I couldn't even think about leaving.
Which was exactly why I couldn't tell him.
Because if Frank was really in that warehouse, if he really needed help, Kostya's men wouldn't save him. They'd see a liability, a loose end, someone who knew too much about me. Frank would disappear, and Mrs. Zi would never know what happened to her grandson, would spend the rest of her life wondering.
I knew the smart play. Stay here, stay safe, let others handle the mess I'd created. That's what Kostya would say, probably right before he threw my phone out the window and put guards on my door.
But I'd never been able to make the smart play when someone needed help. It's why I'd become a doctor. Why I'd reported the organ trafficking ring instead of looking away. Why I'd spent six months stitching up criminals in basements instead of disappearing completely.
Some people could walk away from cries for help. Could prioritize their own safety over others' suffering. Those people lived longer, stayed safer, made better choices.
I wasn't one of those people.
The warehouse on 4th. I knew the area—industrial, mostly abandoned, the kind of place where screams wouldn't be heard. Also the kind of place where bodies were dumped. Where trails went cold. Where Frank could be bleeding out right now while I debated ethics and probability.
The shower shut off.
My window was closing. In ninety seconds, Kostya would emerge, and he'd read the tension in my body immediately. Would know something had changed. Would ask, and I was a terrible liar when it came to him. He'd see straight through any deflection.
I typed back quickly:Frank, are you hurt? Is anyone with you?
No response. Maybe his battery had died. Maybe he was unconscious. Maybe someone had taken his phone after making him send the message, and they were waiting to see if I'd bite.
Probability suggested trap. Every survival instinct I'd developed screamed trap. But that small voice, the one that had taken an oath to do no harm, whispered What if it's not?
The bathroom door opened. Kostya emerged in a cloud of steam, towel around his waist, water still beading on his chest. He took one look at me and froze.
"What's wrong?" His voice shifted from relaxed to alert in three syllables.
I was still holding my phone. Still staring at Frank's message. My face had probably gone pale, my pupils dilated with the adrenaline surge. Every tell he'd learned to read screaming that something had happened.
"Nothing," I said, shoving the phone under my pillow. Smooth. Really convincing. "Just . . . thinking."
He crossed to the bed in three strides, sat beside me. His hand came to my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Don't lie to me, kitten. What happened?"
The endearment almost broke me. Made me want to confess everything, show him the message, let him take control. But Frank's face flashed in my mind. Twenty-one years old. His whole life ahead of him. Guilty of nothing except helping a desperate doctor treat desperate people.
"Just some anxiety," I said, leaning into his touch. "Coming down from the nursery high. You know how it is—what goes up must come down."
He studied me for a long moment. Looking for the lie. Finding it, probably, but maybe attributing it to embarrassment rather than deception.
"You need to eat," he decided. "When's the last time you had actual food?"
I couldn't remember. My stomach had been too knotted with anxiety about meeting Sophie to eat lunch. "This morning?"
"Maya." Frustration and fondness in equal measure. "I'm ordering dinner. You're eating. Non-negotiable."
