Then the pain in my leg brings everything into focus.
It's no longer a sharp sting; instead, it's a deep, rhythmic throb that syncs with my pulse. The stitches Ivan placed yesterday—thread meant for shirts, piercing through torn muscle—have held my skin together. However, the surrounding tissue is swollen and radiates heat, feeling tight as if my skin is two sizes too small for my leg.
Infection isn't a possibility; it's a countdown.
The bathroom door is ajar, steam escaping in slow, white wisps. The water stops, and a moment later, the door swings open.
Ivan steps out.
A thin white towel hangs around his neck, and his damp hair is darker than usual. Stubble roughens his face, a stark contrast to the clean-shaven look he had when we fled the Tower—now a shadow darkens his jaw, making him appear tired and dangerous.
For a moment, my mind struggles to reconcile his current appearance with the image I've held of him.
He's not in a charcoal suit, silk tie, or cufflinks that catch the light. There's no watch heavy enough to buy a mid-sized sedan.
Instead, he wears dark, stiff jeans and a faded gray henley with worn cuffs. A canvas jacket hangs off the back of the peeling laminate chair by the door.
He catches me staring.
"Thrift store," he says, his voice rough from sleep or smoke. He crosses to the window, lifting the curtain slightly and scanning the parking lot below. "Cash. No receipts. I washed them in the sink and ran them through the motel dryer three times so they wouldn't smell like someone else's life."
Of course he did. Even in disguise and while running for his life, he can't help but optimize, stripping the variables from the equation.
He gestures toward the bathroom. "Your clothes are in there. I guessed the size."
I swing my legs off the bed carefully.
The movement tugs at the stitched flesh. My vision narrows, white spots dancing in the gray room, but my leg holds—barely.
I limp into the bathroom. It's small, humid, and smells of bleach.
On the closed toilet lid lies a pile of clothes: jeans, a black T-shirt, and a dark hoodie with a broken zipper pull. Nondescript. Cheap. The uniform of the invisible men who keep the city running.
I dress slowly, maneuvering the denim over my bandaged thigh without snagging the gauze. I catch my reflection in the spotted mirror above the sink.
Hollow eyes. Dark circles resembling bruises. A genuine bruise blooming purple and yellow at my collarbone, one I don't remember earning. My mouth is set in a line that feels permanent.
If Subject 43 were alive as Ivan described him in that file, he wouldn't recognize this man.
Subject 43 was maintained. Calibrated.
This man is used.
When I step outside, Ivan stands at the door, keys in hand. He scans me quickly, checking for blood seepage and stability.
"We need resources," he states. "Clean phones. Ammunition. A vehicle that isn't stolen from a seasonal cabin and reported by now. Cash we can spend without leaving a digital footprint larger than us."
I touch the pistol tucked into the waistband of my new jeans. We have what's left in the magazine and one spare that isn't full. That's it. In a war against Boris, this isn't an arsenal; it's a suicide note.
"Do you have a source?" I ask. "One that isn't monitored?"
"I might." He looks at me, hesitation in his eyes, a flicker of something he's trying to suppress. "You're going to have to trust me."
I almost laugh.
Trust. After the files. After the conditioning. After realizing my entire relationship with him was engineered in a notebook five years ago.
But he didn't leave me on the walkway while the cabin burned. He didn't trade my life for his when Boris offered an easy way out.
