Good. They can help bury anyone who looks at it wrong.
I try to move. My body says no. Heavy as wet concrete, pinned by tape and stitches and Vera’s bad mood lingering in my veins.
I hook my fingers under the sheet and pull like I’m dragging a man across gravel. Fire rips through my chest. The room swims. Doesn’t matter. Pain is a language I speak better than sleep.
Vstavat, I tell myself. Get up.
40
Anton
My fingers twitch first. Then my toes. Shoulder screams. Chest feels like someone’s standing on it with steel-toed boots.
But I can move.
I focus on that. On the burn in my ribs. The ache in my arm. The IV line taped to the back of my hand.
They’re still talking. Still peeling fruit like the world didn’t just tilt off its axis.
My jaw clenches. I drag air through my teeth, force my lungs to expand past the bandages.
Move.
My hand curls into a fist. The sheet bunches under my fingers.
Move, you fucking coward.
I shift my weight. The mattress creaks.
No one looks.
Good.
I plant my palm on the bed rail. Push. My shoulder protests—loud, vicious, the kind of pain that makes your vision white out. I breathe through it. Push harder.
My legs swing over the side of the bed. Bare feet hit cold tile.
The room spins. I grip the rail with both hands, knuckles white, and force myself upright.
That’s when Lev glances over.
His apple stops mid-peel. “Oh, shit.”
Everyone turns.
I yank the IV out of my hand. Blood wells up. I don’t care.
“Boss—” Boris starts.
“No.” My voice comes out rough, wrecked. “No one fucking stops me.”
Dima stands. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.”
I take a step. My legs nearly give out. I catch the bed frame, hold myself up through sheer spite.
Dr. Vera’s sedative is still dragging at my blood, making everything slow and heavy. I’m going to kill her for this. Slowly. With her own scalpel.
