Red light.Wrong.
“Shit,” I whisper. “No. Don’t panic. You’ve got this.”
3509
Red.
3529
Red.
3539
Red.
3549
Green.
“Yes!” I rasp, my voice quiet but urgent.
The lock disengages with a soft, mechanicalthunk.
I almost sob with relief.
Hand on the handle.
Pull.
The door opens—two inches—before a massive palm slams it shut above my head.
I spin.
Ivan.
Awake.
Towering over me, his eyes black with fury. The knife is already out of the towel, trembling in my grip, point aimed at his midsection.
“Back off,” I hiss. “Iwillkill you if I have to.”
My voice is shaking. But I mean it. This is it. Fight or flight. Kill or be killed.
Ivan pauses. Just long enough for me to think—maybe—he’s actually weighing the odds.
Then he moves.
Left feint.
I lunge right to counter.
“Argh!” I spit, swishing the knife.
Ivan’s already shifting the other way—fast, fluid, like water. One hand snaps out, catches my wrist. Twists it hard. Pain flares white-hot up my arm. The knife clatters across the hallway tile, spinning into shadow.
“No! No! No!” I growl, desperate and cornered.
I’m slammed back against the door—his forearm across my collarbone, not crushing, just pinning. Immovable.
