“That isn’t an answer. It’s a mission statement.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in the hollow of his cheek. “The observation room. Before the disposal order was issued.”
I do the math. That was over thirty hours ago. He’s been running on nothing but cortisol and the Kennel’s conditioning for more than a day, and he shows no sign of allowing himself to break. This is the bill for defection. He isn't just losing his career; he’s sacrificing his own biology to keep me upright.
“Alexei,” I say, sitting up fully. The warehouse spins for a moment. “You need to rest. Even for an hour.”
“We have five hours before the primary escape routes are fully saturated by Baranov assets,” he says, standing up. I see the slight sway in his hips before he locks his knees. “Less if they’ve flagged the vehicle I took. I will rest when we are across the state line.”
I want to argue. I want to point out that he’s a liability if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion. But I know that look. It’s thesame focus that broke me in the chair. He will drive himself into a grave before he lets them take me back to that room.
I look down at myself. The black wool sweater he gave me is a shroud. The sleeves hang past my knuckles, and the hem reaches my mid-thighs. The tactical pants are rolled at the cuffs so I don’t trip over my own feet. I’ve shrunk inside my own skin, but the wool is warm. It’s scratchy and rough, but it smells of him—an undercurrent of cedar and gun oil and the cold air of the Tower.
I’ve worn suits that cost more than most people’s homes. Silk, cashmere, bespoke tailoring designed to project a name. None of it ever made me feel safe. Nothing has ever felt as solid as this oversized sweater. It is a physical proof that I was chosen.
“We need to manage the variables,” Alexei says, moving through the space to repack the duffel. His movements are still efficient, but there’s a heaviness to them now. “Your appearance is the primary risk. Facial recognition is active at every transit point. We need to alter the silhouette.”
I touch my hair. It’s long, tangled from three weeks of neglect.
“What are you going to do?”
He produces the trauma shears from the bag. The blades catch the gray dawn light, a cold silver flash that makes my stomach drop. Those shears. The sound of them snicking through my Hermès tie. The way he used them to strip me bare in that gray room.
He sees me flinch. He stops, the shears held half-open. His eyes find mine, and for the first time, there is a flicker of empathy that wasn't programmed into him.
“This is protection,” he says softly. “Not extraction, Nikolai.”
“I know.” I force my breath to stay even. “Do it.”
He crosses the concrete and positions himself behind me on the mattress. I feel the weight of him settling, the heat of his legs against my back. He gathers a section of my hair in his left hand.
Snick.
The sound is loud in the empty warehouse. A heavy clump of dark hair falls onto the mattress. I close my eyes.
In the Processing Room, metal against my skin meant the mapping. It meant the scalpel tracing my ribs and the cold inventory of my bones. My nervous system is still calibrated for that terror. My heart rate climbs, hammering against my ribs, but I focus on the sensation of his fingers.
His touch is different today. He isn’t looking for a nerve cluster to press. He isn’t searching for a weakness to exploit. He is steadying my head, his fingers warm against my scalp. It’s a rhythmic, focused motion.
Snick. Snick.
I focus on the whisper of falling hair hitting the wool of the sweater.
“I can never go back, can I?” I ask. The words feel brittle in the cold air.
The shears pause near my right ear. “Go back where?”
“To the Ritz. To the nightclubs. To being the Petrenko heir.” I look at the dark mess accumulating on the mattress. “Even if we survive. I’m a traitor. I gave up the Zurich codes. I burnedthe insurance files. I betrayed a legacy that goes back three generations.”
“Yes.” He doesn't offer a lie to comfort me.
“Then what am I? If I’m not a Petrenko, if I’m not my father’s son—who is left?”
The shears resume their work.
“I have spent my life being Subject 43,” Alexei says. His voice is a quiet drone, almost hypnotic. “I do not know who I would be without a directive. We are both operating in a vacuum now, Nikolai.”
“That isn't an identity. That’s a malfunction.”
