“Please.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My heart drums in my ribcage, urging me to get the hell out of here.
Another guard steps in at my other side, closing the space. I’m boxed in. Pushed forward. Sokolov’s grip tightens. “You have no idea where you are.”
Faint now, through layers of wall, I still hear Dad shouting my name. Sokolov’s fingers dig into the thin fabric of my scrubs.
“Don’t,” he says. “He’s not getting you out.”
We move deeper into the estate. Only an hour ago, I was leaving work and thinking about reheating old noodles. Now I’m walking through a mansion full of guards. Sokolov leans closer.His breath brushes my ear. “You walked into a world that doesn’t let people go. No one comes looking for men like you.”
The words land with the weight of absolute truth. Sokolov is right. I hate that he is. I’ve lived my life like a ghost, drifting from shifts to my trailer. The truth hits me like a physical weight. If I vanish tonight, the hospital will post my job listing before they post a missing person’s report. I’m a nobody. And in this world, nobodies are the easiest to bury.
My chest tightens at the thought, but I keep walking. There’s nowhere else to go anyway. We climb stairs, then turn into a narrower corridor, letting the noise of the main house fade behind us. I straighten my shoulders. Fear sits low in my stomach. “I’m not disappearing. I won’t.”
No one answers. There’s just the dull sound of their boots on the floor.
We pass a set of glass cases placed neatly between the doors. Knives rest inside them in careful rows. Some long, some curved, all looking to be made for one specific, lethal hand. Sokolov presses the back of my neck. “Keep moving.”
Footsteps join us as a woman falls in beside him. Sokolov steps aside and gestures once toward the opening, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Welcome to the prince’s wing.”
The air changes the second we cross the threshold. Thick carpet swallows the sound of our boots, killing the echo. It’s too quiet, except for the wild pounding of my heart. How the hell will I ever find my way back out of this place? I’m already lost.
A man waits by the door in a dark suit. His sleeves are pushed back just enough to show his forearms.
“This is Jonah, your replacement.” Sokolov’s grip tightens on my shoulder. “Jonah, this is Doctor Petrov.”
Petrov’s gaze drags down my frame, pausing on my damp scrubs and sneakers with visible distaste. “My replacement.”
“Babushka’s idea.”
“I see.” His Russian accent is unmistakable. He sizes me up. My skin prickles like he’s already deciding where I’d break. “Jonah, the nurse. Yes?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yes.”
“Very well. If Babushka has decided, then we proceed. You will follow my schedule.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, even though I don’t understand what that means yet.
“He’s been unconscious for a week. We don’t know if he’ll make it.” There’s a faint shift at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as I notice it.
“That’s awful.” My stomach drops. If he dies, I die too. That part has been made all too clear.
“That’s why you’ll stay with him. Day and night. Until I say otherwise.” He presses a medical bag into my chest, forcing me to take the weight of it. “Good luck. You’ll need it when he wakes.”
My fingers tighten around the strap. “Why?”
Petrov opens the door and nudges me toward the threshold. “Fear, Jonah. He doesn’t tolerate it.” His gaze flicks over me. “And you reek of it.”
“Don’t scare the poor boy,” Sokolov barks from behind me. His hand presses briefly between my shoulder blades as he guides me to the threshold. “The only thing that matters in your life now is taking care of Viktor Morozov.”
The name hits like a blow to the chest.
Viktor Morozov.
Headlines crash through my mind—a black car, a body dragged from a club. He was supposed to be dead. My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that says I’ve walked into a grave that hasn't been covered yet.
I swallow hard. “He was shot. They said...”
“That he was dead?” Sokolov’s mouth curls. “People say many things.”
