I look at him.
And he looks back—still and fixed, as if he's waiting for the next order.
Or for me to say the thing I already said and pretend I didn't mean it.
8
MAKSIM
The elevator doors close,and my body halts in its refusal to move.
A minute ago, I was a weapon—cutting through bodies, hearing the sharp pop of gunfire and the wet sounds that followed. I remained in that state during the drive back, listening to the car's hum as streetlights slid across the windows. I kept my face still and my hands ready.
Now, the small, private quiet of the elevator reveals every bruise.
My ribs throb first, a deep ache that catches my breath halfway in, as if my chest is wrapped in wire. My knuckles burn where the skin has split against bone. My shoulder stings in a thin, hot line I don't remember earning. My forearms feel heavy, the dull weight of impact settling beneath my skin.
My hands shake.
It isn't dramatic. It isn't visible unless you're looking for it. But I can feel it in the tendons—a low-frequency tremor, as if the last remnants of the fight are trapped in my joints, vibrating for release.
I don't conduct the inventory I was taught.
At the facility, we were trained to sort ourselves into parts: find the damage, assign it a place, put it away, and move on.
I can't do that right now. The pain won't fit neatly into boxes. It shifts when I breathe, when I swallow, when the elevator rises and the change in pressure makes my bruised ribs protest.
I maintain my posture because Ivan is beside me. I can sense his attention skimming the space without him turning his head. Even in silence, he is counting exits, listening for the slightest change, pretending he isn't thinking about the blood on my shirt.
I have killed before.
The first time wasn't in the city. It wasn't for a principal, nor for money or loyalty.
It was in a room with a locked door.
We were boys then, numbers instead of names. They told us one of us was surplus, and they didn't reveal which until the door shut behind us.
Only one of us walked out.
I remember the other boy's eyes more vividly than the sound he made. I recall the shape of his mouth trying to form words and failing. I remember my own hands—how steady they were, how my body acted as it had been trained while my mind remained blank, because being blank was safer.
Afterward, the instructor nodded. That was all. I had met the minimum requirement for breathing.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, I killed while Ivan watched.
I felt his eyes on me through smoke and candlelight. I sensed him under the table, observing my movements, seeing what I become when I take people apart.
And afterward—inside the car—his hand on my skin made my pulse race harder than any attacker ever had.
He didn't touch me like I was a weapon needing cleaning. He touched me like I was something else.
I can't let you go.
The words circle my mind as the elevator ascends, refusing to settle.
I should be focused on the attack—the door, the lights, the breach. I should be compiling the after-action report to give Ivan the data the moment he asks.
