"Go," I rasp. "Get to the boat. I'll hold them at the shed door."
Ivan stares at me, disbelief etched on his face.
"The shed's a choke point," I force out. "I can slow them down. You start the engine. You?—"
His grip tightens.
"What are you saying?"
"This is what I do," I say, the words cutting deeper than the bullet wound. "This is what I'm for."
The file flashes in my mind like a bruise you can't stop touching.
Subject 43. Expendable. Extension of will.
The moment the conditioning was meant to achieve.
A part of me—some old, conditioned instinct—craves the relief of surrender. It wants to stop resisting who I am and simply embrace it: sacrifice, death, a clean break, a simple end.
It would be easy.
"No," Ivan says.
"Ivan—"
"Shut up."
His voice strikes like a slap, raw and furious, far from the authoritative tone of an heir.
He leans in, his face inches from mine, eyes alight with a panic that has sharpened into rage.
"You are not a subject number," he snarls. "You don't get to decide you're disposable just because a piece of paper says so."
A bullet whizzes past, close enough to make the air tremble. Ivan doesn't flinch.
"We go together," he declares, and it's not romantic; it's a verdict. "Or we die together. Those are the options."
He grips the front of my vest and pulls me up.
My leg screams as he hauls me upright. Stars explode behind my eyes, and I bite down hard, my jaw aching.
But Ivan's grip is iron, and he keeps firing with his other hand, keeping their heads down, buying us precious inches.
I stagger.
He drags me.
We move.
The shed door is reinforced steel.
We crash into it together. Ivan slams it shut behind us and secures the heavy bar. Bullets thud into the wood immediately, punching like fists. The door shudders but holds.
The boat rests on its lift, gently rocking in the shadowed water.
Ivan lowers me against the wall, careful not to treat me gently, as if gentleness would make it all too real.
"How bad?" he asks, not looking at me.
