I'd spent six months watching people die because they'd waited too long to seek help, because they'd hoped things wouldget better on their own. The gangbanger who'd bled out because his friends debated for three hours whether to bring him to me. The woman who'd lost her leg to infection because she'd been too afraid to trust anyone. Wait and see was how people died in my world, and Frank had already been waiting for far too many hours.
Mrs. Zi's face floated in my mind—weathered hands that shook with arthritis but still folded dumplings with mechanical precision. Seventy-three years old. What was the probability she could defend herself if Brand's people came for her?
The Hippocratic Oath I'd taken felt like a living thing in my chest.
First, do no harm.
But wasn't inaction its own kind of harm?
Kostya shifted in his sleep, pulling me closer, and my resolve almost crumbled. His chest was warm against my back, heartbeat steady against my spine. This man who'd fed me when I forgot to eat, who'd bought our kittens an entire pet store, who'd made up elaborate backstories for stuffed animals just to make me laugh. He'd be terrified when he woke up and found me gone. Furious. Would probably tear the city apart looking for me.
But he'd also understand, eventually. Once I proved Frank was telling the truth, that the danger was real, that my instincts had value too.
I began the extraction.
First, the breathing—maintaining the same rhythm I'd held for the last hour, the cadence of sleep he'd expect if some part of him was monitoring. Then the pressure—shifting my weight incrementally, millimeter by millimeter, transferring it away from where our bodies touched. His arm grew heavier as his muscles relaxed further, responding to the absence of resistance.
The hardest part was the final separation. That moment when I had to slip out from under his arm entirely, leaving cold air where warmth had been. I moved in one fluid motion, the way I'd learned to handle surgical instruments—no hesitation, no tremor, just smooth execution of planned movement.
He made a sound, low in his throat, and my whole body froze. But his breathing stayed deep, and after three seconds—I counted them—his arm settled onto the mattress where I'd been.
The loss of his heat felt like grief.
Zmeya's eyes caught the darkness, twin points of green light watching me dress. She made a small chirp, questioning, and I pressed a finger to my lips. Malysh uncurled from his spot at our feet, both kittens now alert to their mother's strange behavior.
"I'm coming back," I whispered, so quiet it was barely sound. "I promise. Take care of him for me."
Zmeya meowed, soft but disapproving, and I had to turn away before the accusation in those green eyes changed my mind.
The practical preparations came next. Medical kit from his bathroom—basic supplies, nothing that would be missed immediately. Bandages, antiseptic, the things Frank might need if he was hurt. Cash from Kostya's desk drawer, three hundred dollars in twenties that he kept for emergencies. This qualified, even if he wouldn't agree.
My phone sat on the nightstand, and I stared at it for a long moment. He'd installed tracking apps that first night, security measures he'd said, and he was right. But tracking worked both ways. If I took it, he'd find me before I could help Frank. If I left it, I was cutting my last lifeline to safety.
I left it. The decision felt like stepping off a cliff.
But I took his jacket.
The black tactical one that smelled like him—gun oil and soap and something uniquely Kostya. It was too big, swallowing my frame, but the weight of it felt like armor.
The compound's patrol schedule was burned into my memory. Four days of watching had taught me the rhythm—seven-minute rotation on the east side, guards switching at 1:20, 1:27, 1:34. The service entrance had a twelve-second blind spot when the cameras panned. I'd timed it obsessively.
1:22 AM. Five minutes until the rotation. I stood at our bedroom door, hand on the handle, looking back at the bed where Kostya slept. Where the kittens now sat like tiny sentinels, watching me with eyes that seemed far too knowing for creatures so small.
This was insane. I knew it was insane. Walking out of safety into probable danger for someone who might already be beyond help. But that was the point, wasn't it? Themight. The possibility.
I was a doctor. This was the whole point.
The doorknob turned silently. The hallway stretched ahead, dark and full of shadows.
I stepped into the corridor and didn't look back.
The east service door was exactly where I'd mapped it. The lock disengaged with a soft click that sounded like thunder in the silence. October air hit me like a physical blow, sharp and cold, carrying the smell of rain and rust.
For one moment, one heartbeat, I almost turned around.
But Frank was out there. And I was the only one who might care enough to save him.
I pulled the jacket tighter and stepped into the darkness.
