His eyes flickered at the name. “Your sister or our grandmother.”
I stepped closer. “She chose family.”
My voice softened — not in weakness, but in understanding.
“Anyone would have.”
Ruslan’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the chaise.
“She didn’t have a real choice,” I continued. “Not one that didn’t end in blood.”
His jaw tightened — muscles working as if he wanted to interrupt but didn’t.
“And you know that,” I said. “You know she wouldn’t have wanted to kill her colleague.”
My chest rose and fell as emotion crept in.
“Not intentionally.”
“Never.”
For the first time, something shifted in his eyes.
Anger didn’t disappear — but doubt crept in around its edges.
“You’ve spent years painting her as a cold-blooded traitor,” I pressed. “As someone who betrayed you on purpose. But what if you were wrong?”
My words slowed.
Deliberate.
“What if she lost control after the first hundred punches?”
His expression tightened.
“What if every strike after that point wasn’t about killing Amy — but about surviving the situation?”
I took another step closer.
“What if she kept hitting because she was drowning in fear? In panic? In pressure from a criminal forcing her to choose between two lives?”
My voice dropped lower.
“Or worse — what if she kept hitting because she hated herself for what she’d already done?”
His eyes darkened.
“What if those final punches weren’t cruelty?”
I pointed at him.
The pool lights flickered across his face.
He went completely still.
Completely.
The only movement in the space was the slow ripple of water brushing against the stone edge and the faint hiss of burning torches.
