That day is today.
I cross the room to the bed, moving quietly on the hardwood, and stop at the edge.
He's on his side, facing the door, as if even asleep his body chose the position with the best tactical awareness. The sheets cover his waist and legs. His shoulders are bare. The cotton shirt he wore last night is twisted slightly, exposing the side of his ribs where the bruise from the restaurant still stains him under the skin. It's lighter now, turned from dark purple to that sickly yellow-green that means healing. His bandaged hands rest near his face.
I shouldn't be looking at him like this.
It feels like trespassing. It feels like looking at something sacred that I've already desecrated.
I stand over him anyway, caught between two impulses: let him sleep and keep him alive.
If we stay, we die.
If we leave, I wake him and pull him back into the world he's been trying to escape.
I choose survival.
"Maksim."
His eyes open instantly. The softness vanishes in a single breath. He's awake as if he was never asleep, focus snapping into place. He pushes himself upright, sheets slipping down, and his gaze lands on me with that automatic assessment:injury? threat? command?
"Sir," he says, his voice rough with sleep but steady. "What time?—"
"We're moving." I keep it clipped. There's no room for questions that waste time. "The building's been breached. Security layer compromised. Authentication codes accessed."
His expression shifts. A small change at the corners of his eyes. Not surprise—calculation.
"How long?"
"I don't know," I say. "Three hours since the breach. They could already be in motion."
He swings his legs out of bed.
Bare feet hit the cold floor.
He doesn't look at the bed. He doesn't look at me. He moves as if snapping back into the only role that has ever felt safe—function. He reaches for his weapon on the nightstand before he even stands up.
"Where?"
I hesitate with the go-bag half-unzipped on the closet shelf because the question isn't just about geography.
It's about trust.
And trust is not something I can ask for casually, not after what he read, not after the way he went blank for days and only started to bleed back into himself when his body finally broke.
"Out of the city," I say. "Private location. Off-grid."
His eyes flick to my face.
A beat.
"You need to trust me," I add, because there's no way to dress it up.
His jaw works once. A swallow.
Then he nods and heads for the bathroom.
"I'll be ready."
