The truth is out.
Now we'll see if it saves us or leaves us wounded.
22
MAKSIM
They take Ivan first.
A guard appears at the door, the keys turning in the lock with a heavy, deliberate sound that echoes through the concrete floor like a warning. He offers no explanation, no apology. He simply opens the door and gestures with two fingers.
Move.
Ivan rises.
For a moment, he resembles the heir once more: posture straight, face composed, eyes empty in a way that convinces men he cannot be harmed. He smooths his jacket, a reflex from a boardroom he is no longer in. Then he passes me, close enough for his shoulder to brush against mine.
It would be easy to mistake it for an accident.
But nothing Ivan does is accidental.
His fingers graze my shoulder—barely a touch, a message transmitted through skin because voices can be recorded,walls have ears, and this building was designed by those who understand that privacy is a myth.
Then he is gone.
The door closes. The lock clicks. Silence rushes back in to fill the space he left behind.
I am alone in the room where men are reduced to compliance.
I count.
The Kennel taught me to count when nothing else is stable. When I cannot control the outcome, I can control the measurement: breaths, heartbeats, seconds—anything that steadies the mind when it wants to spiral into every possible future.
I count the sound of my own breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow enough to keep my pulse from betraying me to the camera in the corner.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The light doesn't change. The room remains constant by design—no windows, no clock, no shift of sunlight to indicate whether the world is moving or standing still. The air is recycled, smelling of ozone, floor wax, and old fear.
The only movement is inside me.
At twenty minutes, my leg begins to throb again, a deep, rhythmic pressure beneath the bandage reminding me that the stitches Ivan put in are not medical miracles; they are sewingthread holding flesh together. At thirty minutes, my mouth goes dry. At forty, my hands start to shake with the smallest tremor—adrenaline curdling into anxiety.
An hour.
My count says an hour. My body says it's been longer.
I think about what is happening upstairs.
I picture Ivan in front of Sergei. Standing tall. Speaking in those careful, razor-wire sentences he uses to disarm enemies. Offering evidence like tribute. I envision Sergei's face as I saw it through the dim light of the tablet: not anger, not disgust at the act of sex, but contempt for vulnerability. The particular disdain of a man who believes that any attachment is a handle for someone else to grab.
I think about the video.
Thirty-seven seconds. My hand on Ivan's neck. His mouth against mine. The desperation in the way we leaned into each other.
