He looks up from his desk.
His eyes lock onto me instantly. I've been by the door, holding the same stance for hours. Field of view: 180 degrees. Elevator. Windows.
He watches me for a beat too long.
"Too far," he says.
His voice is rough, scraped.
"Sir?"
"You're too far away." He gestures to the floor beside his chair. "Here."
My stomach drops.
The space he is pointing to isn't a tactical position. I can't see the elevator or the windows. I have zero situational awareness from that angle.
It's the floor.
Close enough that he could reach down and touch me without leaning, close enough that I would be looking at his knees.
I don't hesitate.
I cross the room, stop beside his chair, and lower myself down.
Knees on thick wool carpet, weight settled back on my heels. The softness is offensive; my body is calibrated for concrete.
The posture pulls a memory out of me.
I was fourteen the last time I knelt like this.
Voronin caught me with a book—a contraband paperback about a prison break. He didn't take it away immediately; instead, he made me hold it above my head while I knelt on the training yard floor. The concrete bit into my kneecaps as he paced in front of me, lecturing the squad about distraction.
He spoke until my knees went from pain to fire to numbness. I remember swallowing the bile in my throat, terrified that if I moved, he would see my weakness.
I learned to keep my expression blank while my body screamed.
After that, I stopped reading. It wasn't a conscious choice; the desire just... evaporated.
I never wanted anything outside of function.
Until now.
Ivan doesn't acknowledge me as I settle on the floor. He turns a page.
From this angle, the soundscape changes. I hear the creak of the leather chair, the slide of paper, the scratch of his pen. His breathing is steady but heavy—the sound of a man forcing air into lungs that don't want to expand.
My knees start to ache. I let them. I stay still.
I can't see the elevator. I can't see the door.
I can only see Ivan—his wrist as he writes, the tendons flexing, the white cuff of his shirt against the dark wood of the desk.
His hand moves.
I don't anticipate it.
One moment he is writing; the next, his left palm rests on the top of my head.
