I should be horrified. Part of me is. But a larger part—a part I'm only now discovering—is fiercely, desperately glad. Glad he's that deadly. Glad he can protect himself. Glad that the violence I once found repulsive is now the only thing standing between me and Sergei.
What does that make me?
I don't have time to answer. On the south feed, an explosion blooms orange and white, and the camera goes dark.
"Oh God," I breathe.
"He's fine," Anna says, though her voice wavers. "He wasn't near that blast. Look—there, on the east feed. He's moving toward the gate."
She's right. I can see him on another monitor, sprinting toward the explosion site, weapon ready. Alive. Still alive.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
***
The hours blur together.
We watch the battle unfold on the screens—the east gate breach, the fighting in the gardens, the desperate defenseof every wall. Anna provides quiet commentary, identifying positions, explaining tactics, her voice steady even when the fear shows in her eyes.
"That's the drainage tunnel," she says when the north wall feed shows men pouring through a gap in the defenses. "Misha was worried about that. Said it was impossible to fully secure."
"Will they hold?"
"They'll hold. Misha won't let them through."
She sounds certain. I want to believe her.
On the monitors, I watch Misha's men engage the attackers in the gardens. Bodies fall on both sides. Muzzle flashes illuminate the darkness in strobing bursts. It looks like something from a nightmare—shadows killing shadows, blood black in the harsh light of the security cameras.
The nausea comes and goes. I blame it on nerves when Anna notices me pressing my hand to my stomach, and she accepts the explanation without question. Why wouldn't she? We're locked in a basement watching people die. Anyone would feel sick.
But it's not just nerves. It's the tiny cluster of cells dividing inside me, making demands my body is scrambling to meet. It's the future I didn't plan for, growing regardless of whether I'm ready.
I think about my mother. The woman I never knew, who died bringing me into the world. Is that my fate too? To create life at the cost of my own?
I push the thought away. One crisis at a time.
"He's in the garden now," Anna says, pointing at a monitor. "See? That's him."
I lean forward, squinting at the grainy feed. She's right—I can make out Misha's silhouette, moving through the shadows with predatory grace. As I watch, he closes on a group of attackers from behind. The violence is swift, brutal, efficient. Three men dead in as many seconds.
"Jesus," I whisper.
"I told you," Anna says. "He's good at this."
Good seems like an inadequate word. Terrifying might be more accurate. But also... reassuring. Because every man he kills is one less threat to us. One less obstacle between survival and destruction.
I'm starting to think like them. Like the Kashkins. Like the world I've fallen into.
I don't know if that should scare me or not.
"Look," Anna says, pointing at another monitor. "They're pulling back."
She's right. On the feeds, Sergei's men are retreating—falling back from the walls, disappearing into the darkness beyond the perimeter. The gunfire is tapering off, replaced by the shouts of Misha's men coordinating the cleanup.
"Is it over?" I ask.
"Looks like it." Anna slumps back in her chair, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. "Thank God. I thought—"
