The memory lives in my fingers when I flex them. It lives in my throat when I swallow. It lingers in the air when Ivan walks past me, because he's the one who looked up at me from the floor with his eyes bright and hungry, as if he'd just found proof of something he'd been digging for.
I should have held still.
Stillness is safety. It's what kept me alive when I was too young to understand why other boys disappeared after night watch. It's what kept me alive when the concrete bit into my knees and the lesson was simple:don't move until you're told.
But in that ring, I moved.
I moved fast. I moved hard. I moved like something that belonged to violence instead of something built to contain it. When my weight settled over his hips, my control split.
Then it snapped back.
I left him on the mat and put myself back into the shape that works.
That shape has been holding ever since.
It's why I don't sleep.
Sleep means letting go. Sleep means the room goes black and whatever I've been choking down gets room to crawl up. I don't trust myself unconscious.
So I stand.
I stand where Ivan expects me. By the kitchen entrance. Near the corridor that leads to the bedroom. I watch the elevator doors in the reflection of the glass. I listen to the soft hum of the climate system. I smell the building, the cedar soap, and the food the staff prepped before they left.
The penthouse has a different quiet at night. It isn't peaceful. It's sealed. The walls are glass and stone, and the air doesn't move unless a machine tells it to. Even the city below feels muted, distant enough to forget it has teeth.
Ivan eats at the island.
He's been eating more lately. He sits with his shoulders tight and his tablet propped up beside his plate, his eyes moving as he reads. He doesn't eat for pleasure. It's just another task.
Pasta tonight. The smell travels—garlic and oil, bread warmed and torn. Even from where I stand, it feels like the food is trying to climb inside me, reminding my body of what it's been missing.
I tell myself I don't feel hungry.
My stomach twists—a low, sour ache that makes me want to press a fist into my abdomen to silence it.
I keep my hands at my sides. I keep my shoulders squared.
Ivan doesn't speak. I don't speak. The only sounds are the faint scrape of his fork, the tap of his finger against the tablet, and the soft click when he sets the utensil down.
My eyelids start to drag.
At first, it's subtle—a slow blink that lasts half a beat too long. Then it worsens. The lines of the room soften at the edges. I focus on the cabinet seam. The seam blurs. I focus on the corner where the ceiling meets the wall. The angle swims.
I force my eyes wider.
That helps for a moment. Then the world tilts again.
I've pushed through this before. I've worked with blood in my eyes and pain in my ribs. Exhaustion is supposed to be something you grind down with discipline.
Tonight, it hits differently. It's not just fatigue. It's the way my body feels scooped out, left upright out of habit.
There's a glass on the counter near my hand. Water left behind earlier. The condensation has made a dark ring on the stone.
I reach for it because the motion is automatic, because my fingers want something solid to hold onto.
My hand closes?—
And then it doesn't.
