It’s all shards—his face, the flash, the sound. The world folding in on itself after the shot. Maybe it’s a nightmare. My brain making up a story to explain the noise, the smell, the weight still stuck to my hands.
Because I don’t kill people. I work at a bank. I color-code spreadsheets. I cry during true-crime documentaries.
So this can’t be real. It can’t.
But then I see him. Timofey. That half-smile he wore like armor. His lips moving—some final taunt I’ll never hear again—and the recoil slamming up my arms.
The sound is deafening all over again. He falls back. Eyes wide. Shocked, like even he didn’t see it coming.
Everything happened so fast. Within seconds, before I could even think or react, something inside me acted on its own instinct.
I killed him.
The thought fractures under the next wave of pain that tears through my stomach. I want to move, to check, toseesomething real, but my limbs won’t answer.
I try to open my eyes. Nothing happens. My lashes don’t even twitch.
Everything hurts in layers. A dull pressure in my chest, a stabbing pull low in my stomach, a rawness in my throat thattastes like metal. When I breathe, it catches. When I think, it burns.
Then—voices. Faint, blurred.
The sound of boots on tile. A chair scraping. The low hum of machines.
The soft hiss of air conditioning. A door opens somewhere close. Hinges groan, footsteps echo against tile—two sets, then a third. The air shifts, heavier, filled with movement and worry.
“Tell me she’s waking up soon,” Lev says. He’s trying to sound casual, but his voice cracks halfway through. “She’s been lying like a corpse for more than forty hours, Doc. I don’t like it.”
“She’s going to be okay,” a deeper voice answers—Dima. I’d know that gravel anywhere. The sound steadies something in me for half a second before the pain pulls it away again.
There’s a pause, then another voice—female, calm, clipped.
“She’s stable, but her system’s still in shock,” the woman says. “There’s bruising along the ribs, a hairline fracture in the left forearm, mild concussion.”
Dima exhales. “But she’ll recover?”
“If she rests, yes.” The doctor hesitates, papers rustling in her hands. “But there’s a complication.”
“Complication?” Lev’s voice jumps, all nerves. “You just said she’s stable.”
“She is,” the doctor says slowly. “But the baby isn’t.”
Silence.
The word hangs in the air like it doesn’t belong there. For a second, I think I misheard it. The pain must be twisting sound.
“What did you say?” Dima asks. His voice isn’t steady anymore.
“The pregnancy,” the doctor says. “We ran her bloodwork when she came in. Her hCG levels are high—she’s early, maybe six weeks. The trauma triggered bleeding and uterine strain. We’re monitoring for fetal distress.”
The room goes dead quiet.
I can hear Lev mutter, “Holy shit.” He sounds like he’s been punched. “She’s… pregnant?”
“Yes.”
My heart stutters, the monitor beeping faster. Pregnant?
No. No, that can’t—
