And somewhere in the dark—
Malenkov watches the feed cut to black.
This time, he didn’t just lose a prisoner.
He lost control.
41
Cal
Location: Forward Medical Safehouse — Eastern Europe
Time: Three Days After Extraction
The ceiling is white.
Too white.
I stare at it until my eyes burn, waiting for it to flicker, waiting for the lights to shut off, waiting for the pain to come back in waves the way it always does.
It doesn’t.
Which makes my chest ache worse than the injuries ever did.
My wrists are bandaged. My arms are free.
That alone feels wrong.
A machine hums softly beside the bed—steady, patient. IV drip. Heart monitor. The sound of survival.
The door opens quietly.
I don’t turn my head. I already know who it is.
“Cal, you’re awake,” Ronan says.
Just my name, spoken like it still matters.
I swallow hard. “How long?”
“Long enough,” he answers.
Footsteps. A chair pulls closer. He doesn’t crowd me. Doesn’t hover. He sits where I can see him if I want to.
I keep staring at the ceiling.
“Did I break?”
Ronan doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t give names,” I rush on. “I didn’t give locations. I didn’t break.”
My voice breaks on the last word.
Silence stretches.
I clench my jaw, waiting for disappointment. For anger. For the look that saysyou failed us.
