I mean this literally. The muscles that should carry my weight have forgotten their purpose after three weeks of atrophy. When I try to stand, my knees buckle like hinges with rusted pins. When I try to step forward, my feet drag against the floor as if they’re filled with sand instead of bone.
“Lean on me,” Alexei says. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. The contact is firm, practical, a human brace. The contact is also the only thing keeping me from collapsing.
“This is humiliating,” I mutter.
The Nikolai Petrenko who walked into that elevator three weeks ago would rather die than be carried out like an invalid. That Nikolai had pride. That Nikolai had legs that worked.
“This is survival. Move.”
We move. Or rather, he moves and I cling to him, my arm draped over his shoulders, my feet shuffling across the concretein a parody of walking. Each step sends bolts of pain through my atrophied muscles. Each step reminds me how thoroughly the Processing Room unmade me.
The smock I’m wearing is thin, scratchy cotton. I’m aware of how exposed I am—bare feet on cold concrete, no underwear, the fabric doing nothing to preserve warmth or modesty. I look like what I am: a prisoner being extracted. A piece of inventory being moved.
But his arm is around my waist. His body is warm against my side. Even as my legs scream and my pride dies a quiet death, I feel something I haven’t felt in weeks.
Safe. Held. His.
The corridor changes as we descend. The smooth, sound-swallowing walls of the residential level give way to raw concrete, exposed pipes, the industrial skeleton that holds the Tower upright. The lighting shifts from amber warmth to harsh fluorescent. The air grows colder, carrying the bass vibration of machinery that I can feel in my teeth.
“Service level,” Alexei says, his voice low. “Maintenance access. Less surveillance.”
Less, but not none. I can see the cameras mounted at intervals, their red indicator lights blinking steadily. Alexei moves us through zones of coverage with a precision that speaks to intimate knowledge of the system. He knows exactly where the blind spots are. He knows exactly how long we have before each lens sweeps back to our position.
He built these systems. Now he’s exploiting them to save the man he was supposed to kill.
The smell hits me before we reach the loading area. Diesel fuel, heavy and acrid. Exhaust fumes that burn the back of my throat. Concrete dust and machine oil. After weeks of the Processing Room’s sterile nothingness, the sensory assault is almost physical. I gag, pressing my hand against my mouth to suppress the sound.
Alexei’s arm tightens around me. “Breathe through your mouth. It passes.”
I try. The air tastes worse than it smells.
We round a corner and I see them—the loading docks. Massive industrial doors, currently sealed. Forklifts parked in neat rows. Stacks of crates waiting for distribution. And beyond the doors, visible through grimy windows, the gray light of the outside world.
I haven’t seen natural light in three weeks.
The realization makes my chest tight. I stop moving, and Alexei has to half-drag me forward before I can force my legs to cooperate again.
“Guard station ahead,” he murmurs. “Follow my lead. Do not speak.”
I nod. My heart is hammering so hard I’m certain anyone within ten meters can hear it.
The guard station is a small booth positioned between the service corridor and the dock floor. Through the scratched glass, I can see a figure inside—broad shoulders, military bearing, the unmistakable bulge of a weapon at his hip.
Alexei’s posture changes. The tension drains from his body. His stride becomes confident, almost bored. When he speaks,his voice carries the flat authority I remember from our earliest sessions.
“Asset transfer. Disposal unit.”
The guard looks up. His eyes flick to me, taking in my thin smock, my shuffling gait, my obvious weakness. I see the calculation happening behind his gaze—damaged prisoner, authorized handler, routine operation.
I try to make myself smaller. I try to become invisible, just another piece of cargo being processed through the Tower’s systems.
“Documentation?” the guard asks.
Alexei produces a tablet from somewhere—I don't see where he was keeping it—and holds it toward the window. The guard scans it with a handheld device. The seconds stretch into hours. I study the concrete floor, counting the cracks, anything to avoid meeting the guard’s eyes.
If he looks too closely, he might recognize me. The Petrenko heir. The asset scheduled for disposal by dawn—not authorized for transfer.
His eyes move back to my face. Linger. Too long.
