I look back once—at the fire, the smoke, the collapsing structure.
Malenkov wanted bait.
Instead, he lost a prisoner.
And now he knows the truth.
I’m alive.
I’m hunting.
And this was only the first door.
39
Ronan
Location: Temporary Safehouse — Eastern Europe
Time: 0416 Hours
Marcus hasn’t stopped shaking.
Not from cold.
Not from pain.
From the shock of freedom colliding with memory.
He sits at the table wrapped in a blanket, IV taped into his arm, steam rising from the mug Lena pressed into his hands. He hasn’t touched it yet.
He keeps looking at me like I might vanish.
I don’t tell him to stop.
Aaron stands against the wall, arms crossed. Miles and Jase stay quiet—giving space, letting Marcus set the pace.
“You don’t have to do this now,” I say.
Marcus swallows hard. “Yes. I do.”
His voice is raw but steady. Soldier through and through.
“They keep us isolated,” he begins. “Separate wings. Soundproof. No contact. No daylight. I don’t know who is alive.”
Lena’s jawtightens.
“They tell you everyone else is dead,” Marcus continues. “They told us you died months ago, maybe longer. They showed us footage.”
I nod once. “We figured.”
“They lie constantly,” he says. “But they’re patient. They let the lies sink in.”
He grips the mug so hard his hands tremble.
“The Warden—Malenkov—he doesn’t interrogate,” Marcus says. “He studies. He waits. He watches who holds and who frays.”
My chest tightens.
