The smile was warm. Paternal, almost. The smile of a mentor greeting a former student who'd done something disappointing but understandable.
"Maya," Dr. Richard Brand said, and his voice carried genuine regret. "I really hoped it wouldn't come to this."
My throat made a sound that wanted to be words. Nothing coherent emerged. But my body went rigid against the restraints, every muscle locking as recognition flooded through me.
I knew that voice. Heard it in lecture halls when I was twenty-two, explaining the intricacies of transplant surgery with passion that made residents lean forward in their seats. Heard it in operating theaters, calm and confident, guiding my hands through my first liver resection. Heard it in the hallway outside the ethics board, cold and dismissive, as he denied everything I'd reported and watched my career burn.
The man who'd trained me. The man who'd destroyed me. The man who'd been running an organ trafficking operation from inside my hospital while I'd admired his surgical technique.
He pulled up a stool beside my table, settling onto it like we were about to have a consultation. Like this was rounds, and I was a particularly interesting case.
"You should have walked away," he continued, his tone conversational, almost kind. "After the board revoked your license, you could have disappeared. Started over somewhere else. Gotten a job at a clinic in another state, changed your name, built a new life." He shook his head, that same disappointed expression I remembered from when I'd fumbled a suture during residency. "Instead, you kept helping people. Kept gathering evidence. Kept being a problem."
I tried to speak. My throat burned, raw from screaming, but I forced sound through anyway. "You—" The word came out broken, barely audible.
"I framed you, yes." He said it simply, without guilt. "The opioid theft, the malpractice accusations. You gave me no choice, Maya. You were too good at finding things. Too stubborn to look away when you should have." He leaned forward slightly. "Do you know how many years I've built this operation? How many lives I've saved by making sure organs go to the people who need them most?"
The justification hit like a physical blow. He actually believed it. Believed he was doing good work, saving lives, making hard choices that lesser people couldn't stomach.
"You kill people," I managed, the words scraping my throat like broken glass.
"I redistribute resources." His voice stayed calm, reasonable. "Some people die anyway—terminal patients, accident victims, people who won't survive regardless of intervention. Why shouldn't their organs go to someone who can use them? Someone who has value, who contributes to society, who can pay for the privilege of continued life?"
He reached out then, and I flinched violently against my restraints. But he only touched the surgical markings on my abdomen, tracing the lines with clinical detachment. Examining his handiwork.
"Universal donor," he said, almost admiringly. "Do you know how rare that is? O-negative blood, compatible tissue markers, young and healthy organs with years of function left in them." His finger followed the primary incision line. "Your heart could go to a Saudi prince whose old one is failing. Your liver to a tech CEO who drank himself into cirrhosis. Your kidneys—" He smiled again. "Your kidneys are the real prize. Two wealthy clients fighting over who gets priority."
The scream that tried to escape came out as a wheeze. My body convulsed against the restraints, accomplishing nothing except making the cardiac monitor spike again.
"I have six buyers waiting, Maya." He said my name like we were still colleagues. Still friends. "Six important people who will live because of you. Isn't that what you always wanted? To save lives?"
Tears streamed down my temples, pooling in my ears. The horror of it wasn't his evil—it was his sincerity. He genuinely sawthis as medical practice. As healing. As the logical extension of his surgical calling.
"Someone—" I tried again, voice barely a whisper. "Someone will—"
"No one's coming for you," he said gently. Like he was delivering a terminal diagnosis to a patient's family. Like this was bad news he wished he didn't have to share but would share anyway because honesty mattered.
"The bratva enforcer you've been staying with?" Brand shook his head. "My people have been watching the compound for days. We knew you'd leave eventually. People like you always do—can't stand to let others suffer when you might help." He patted my arm, a gesture that had once meant reassurance during difficult surgeries. "Your body will never be found. As far as anyone knows, you simply disappeared. Another tragic victim of the underground medical world you chose to inhabit."
He stood, brushing imaginary lint from his scrubs.
"The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. We need to run some final compatibility tests tonight, verify the organ function, ensure everything is optimal for extraction." He moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at me with what appeared to be genuine sorrow. "I am sorry, Maya. You were one of my best students. If you'd just stayed quiet, we could have been colleagues. Instead—" He gestured at the surgical suite, at my body mapped and measured on his table. "This is what stubbornness gets you."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The cardiac monitor beeped steadily. My tears kept falling. And somewhere in the city, Kostya was searching for a woman who'd walked out of safety and straight into the hands of someone who planned to sell her piece by piece.
I stared at the ceiling, at the OR lights positioned to illuminate my eventual dissection, and tried to remember how to pray.
Chapter 18
Konstantin
Thesheetswerecoldwhere she should have been warm. My hand reached across the mattress on instinct, fingers searching for curves and warmth and Maya, finding only cotton that held no memory of her heat.
I was on my feet before my brain caught up. Bathroom. The door stood open, darkness inside, no sound of running water or the soft shuffle of her feet on tile. Empty. Hallway next—I was already moving, checking corners like this was a tactical sweep instead of my own goddamn bedroom. Silent. No lights under doors, no creak of floorboards, no evidence anyone had passed through recently.
Back to the room. Her phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, deliberately left behind. She'd known I could track it. Known I'd installed the security apps. The phone wasn't forgotten—it was a message.
