“Anton, sit the fuck down,” Lev says, moving toward me. “You’re bleeding again.”
“Good.”
“That’s not—”
I shove past him. Nearly fall. Catch the wall instead. My chest is on fire. Shoulder’s still screaming. I don’t give a fuck.
“Where is she?”
Silence.
I turn, lock eyes with Lev. “Where. Is. She?”
He stares at me for a long second. Then his face softens—just a fraction. Just enough.
“Three doors down,” he says quietly. “Right side. ICU partition.”
I don’t thank him. Just push off the wall and start walking.
Every step is agony. Every breath a war. The hallway stretches out like a tunnel, fluorescents buzzing overhead, sterile white tiles blurring at the edges.
Behind me, I hear Boris mutter, “He’s going to die before he gets there.”
“Probably,” Dima says.
“Should we stop him?”
“No.”
I keep walking.
Three doors. Right side.
My hand finds the wall. Then the frame. Then the handle.
I push the door open.
And there she is.
Mary.
Lying still. Too still. Wires and monitors and bandages. Her face is pale, lips bloodless. Hair pulled back from her forehead. Hands resting on top of the blanket like she’s just sleeping.
But she’s not sleeping.
She’s fighting.
For herself. For me. For—
The monitor beeps. Steady. Slow.
I drag myself to the side of the bed, grip the rail to keep from collapsing.My hand finds hers. Fingers cold, too cold.“Mary,” I whisper.
Nothing.
The main monitor beeps beside her—steady, deliberate.Then, under it, I catch another sound. Fainter. Faster. A rapid fluttering, like wings.
Not hers.
