I do pushups until my arms shake. Squats until my thighs burn. Anything to keep my blood moving, my brain sharp, my panic buried. I hum tuneless songs under my breath and pretend the cameras aren’t watching.
Hours pass. Meals arrive—plain but edible—and I eat because starving myself is a shitty way to die. The light changes. I feel myself getting smaller, the room pressing in.
When Leone comes back, it’s only him. He looks tired. The suit is the same, but there are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before.
He sits without a word.
“Round two?” I ask.
He studies me. “You’re scared.”
I laugh, but it comes out thin. “Of you? Please.”
“Not of me.” He leans forward, arms braced on his knees. “You’re scared of what happened to Viktor.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. “He can handle himself.”
“He’s dead.”
“You’re lying.”
Leone shrugs. “Believe what you want.”
I stare at the ceiling and think about sticky floors and sad country songs. About a man who rolled joints like it was meditation and told me I was too smart for this life.
“Why did you become a courier?” Leone asks, his voice quieter now.
The question catches me off guard. “Money.”
He waits.
I sigh. “My dad owes people. A lot of people. I tried to pay them off, keep him breathing another month. Then the jobs got bigger, the money got better, and—” I stop. Swallow. “I’m not a hero. I’m not a spy. I didn’t want my father to end up in a shallow grave.”
Leone nods slowly. “You’re not the first.”
He stands, moves to the door. Pauses.
“Viktor talked before he died,” he says, not looking at me. “He said you were innocent. Said you didn’t know what you were carrying.” A beat. “I’m inclined to believe him.”
Then he’s gone.
I sit in the silence and let the tears come. Just for a minute. Just long enough to feel human.
Viktor tried to save me. He died for it. And I didn’t even know his last name until Leone said it like a curse.
Sava.Viktor Sava.
I roll the name around in my mouth, tasting the shape of it. A name for a gravestone no one will ever build.
The light outside has shifted again. Afternoon bleeding toward evening, the city starting to glow against the darkening sky. I’ve been in this room for what feels like years, but it can’t be more than a day and a half. Time moves differently in cages.
I stand at the window and press my palm flat against the glass. Cold seeps into my skin, grounding me. Below, the guards have changed shifts. New faces, same formation, same blank expressions. They move like machines, precise and predictable.
Predictable is good. Predictable means patterns. Patterns mean weaknesses.
I file away what I’ve observed: mealtimes, guard rotations, Leone’s visits. The rhythm of this place. Every prison has a rhythm, and every rhythm has a gap.
I don’t know when I’ll find mine. But I know I’ll keep looking.
