He doesn't ask. He guides me toward the chair by the fire, his hands firm and unyielding on my shoulders. I want to tell him that the scanner needs tuning, that the frequencies are shifting, that the data is more important than the vessel. But my vision is narrowing, the edges of the room turning into a dark, pulsing vignette.
I sit.
Nikolai works with a speed that is almost violent. He yanks the sweater over my head, the wool sticking to the fresh blood with a sound like tearing paper. He uses the trauma shears from the kit, cutting away the old, blood-soaked bandage.
“Two sutures are gone,” he says, his voice tight. “The wound has reopened at the superior edge. It’s deep, Alexei. You’re hemorrhaging.”
“The kit... the silk thread... I can guide you through the closure.”
“I don’t need guidance.” He’s already laying out the supplies on the table—the needle, the thread, the antiseptic. “I watched you do it in the warehouse. I’ve been practicing on the meat scraps from the pantry while you were monitoring. I know the pattern.”
He practiced. While I was analyzing communication bursts, he was learning how to sew me back together.
“This will hurt,” he says.
“Proceed.”
The needle pierces the skin. It is a cold, sharp intrusion. I focus on the fire, on the way the sap bubbles and hisses in the logs, on anything other than the physical reality of the needle drawing thread through my muscle.
His hands are steady. They are the steadiest things in this room.
“You have to stop pretending, Alexei,” he says, his voice low and focused as he pulls a stitch tight. “You’re not the machine anymore. You’re a man with a hole in his side. If you keep acting like equipment that needs to perform regardless of the damage, you’re going to die in this chair.”
“Operational effectiveness requires?—”
“Operational effectiveness is a Kennel lie.” He ties a knot, the thread snapping as he secures it. “Equipment can be replaced. Assets can be reassigned. But you? You can’t. I won’t let you.”
The words land in a place my conditioning cannot reach. A sector of my mind that has no defensive protocols.
“I was trying to maintain the baseline,” I manage, the blood loss making my thoughts fragment.
“The baseline is gone. It burned with the Tower.” He moves to the next point of separation, his fingers covered in my blood. “I spent three weeks in that chair pretending I wasn’t breaking because I thought breaking meant I was a failure. I was wrong. Breaking was the only way I could become something else.”
I have no response. The pain is a high-frequency scream in my nerves, and the blood loss is beginning to dull my analytical centers.
“The scanner,” I whisper. “The priority traffic...”
“It can wait.” He finishes the last stitch and applies a fresh, thick dressing, taping it down with a pressure that makes me gasp. “You’re going to sit here and you’re going to stay warm while I monitor. That isn't a suggestion, Interrogator. It’s an order.”
He stands up, wiping his hands on a damp cloth. He moves to the scanner with a confidence that staggers me. He handles the dials with a familiarity I didn't realize he possessed. He isn't just imitating me; he is executing the task.
I watch him work through half-closed eyes. The asset has become the operative. The man I was sent to unmake is the only thing keeping the world from going black.
I drift. The heat of the fire and the dull throb of the new stitches pull me under.
When I open my eyes, the gray light has shifted. The shadows in the corners are longer. Hours have vanished.
Nikolai is still at the scanner, but his posture has changed. He isn't sitting. He is standing by the window, his hand resting on the SVD Dragunov propped against the wall. He is perfectly still.
“Nikolai?” My voice is a dry rasp.
“Human contact,” he says, his eyes never leaving the treeline. “About four hundred meters east. Moving through the lower ridge.”
I push myself upright, my side screaming at the movement, but the sutures hold. I move to the window, staying in the shadows.
“Description.”
“Single individual. Heavy winter gear. Carrying a long rifle—bolt action, hunting configuration. Not tactical. He’s moving slowly, checking tracks.”
