Pain flared as a shard sliced skin.
I dropped low instantly — tactical instinct overriding emotion — rolling into partial cover behind a marble column.
My ears rang.
My breath came fast.
The gun remained in my grip — but my aim wavered for a split second.
“I told you...” Ruslan groaned from the floor.
He had seen my movement. “...there are snipers.”
I risked a glance.
He had slid fully down now, sitting against the wall with his legs stretched out.
Blood had formed a small lake under him — dark, thick, expanding slowly across polished stone.
His face had gone paler. Sweat dripped from his jaw.
Shock was creeping deeper.
But he forced himself to lift his head again.
“They won’t kill you,” he rasped. “Not unless I give the order.”
His lips curved faintly — not smugly, but grimly.
“And I won’t.”
The arrogance in that statement burned.
As if controlling whether I lived or died made him merciful.
As if choosing restraint after imprisoning me, after destroying my life, somehow balanced the scales.
“You will open that door,” I said, voice shaking but weapon steady again, “so I can see my sister.”
He swallowed.
His throat worked visibly.
For a moment — just a moment — I saw something flicker behind his pain.
He reached into his breast pocket with his good hand.
His fingers were slick.
Blood smeared the fabric as he fumbled weakly before finally extracting a matte black keycard.
He held it out toward me.
Arm trembling. “Take it,” he said quietly.
“If you want to see her — go.”
I tightened my grip on the keycard.
