That maybe, just maybe, the right person is out there.
Someone strong enough to handle the parts of me I don’t show the world.
Someone who sees Artyom Landon Lane Galkin… and still wants to stay.
The streetlights on this stretch of 18th are spaced too far apart. I’ve always noticed it during the day. Another case of lazy city planning, probably. But at night the gaps feel deliberate, like someone designed the darkness on purpose.
My sneakers slap against the sidewalk in a rhythm that’s faster than usual.
I’m not running. Not yet.
I’m simply moving… with purpose.
I first felt it maybe three blocks back. That prickle at the base of my neck. The same one I brushed off this morning on my way to the sauna, the one Todd laughed away as classic over-caffeinated law-student paranoia.
Except now the caffeine is long gone, my afternoon lecture notes are stuffed in my backpack, and this part of the city has gone quiet in the way it only does after nine on a Tuesday.
No cabs honking.
No groups laughing outside bars.
Just the low hum of distant traffic and my own breathing.
I don’t look back.
Looking back is an invitation. It saysI know you’re there. It saysI’m scared. Instead I lengthen my stride, shoulders square, chinup. The move is automatic, something my father drilled into me years ago without ever calling it training.
If you feel watched, move like you belong to the street more than they do.
My apartment building is two blocks away now. I can see the green awning, the warm glow behind the doorman’s desk.
I’m almost there.
My phone sits heavy in my coat pocket. One long-press on the side button and it would speed-dial Yuri—my father’s head of personal security, the man whose number is labeled simply EMERGENCY in my contacts.
Yuri would have a car rolling within ninety seconds, probably already tracking my location because that’s how my life works even when I pretend it doesn’t.
But I hesitate.
I’m twenty-three. I live alone. I walk home alone most nights. If I call Yuri over afeeling, I’ll hear about it tomorrow. Not from him—he’s too professional for that—but from my father.
The disappointed silence.
The quiet implication that I’m still the little boy who peeked around banisters instead of the man who’s supposed to one day run the legitimate half of an empire.
One more block, that’s all I’ve got.
It will be fine. I know it will. I’m just being silly.
I cross to the left side of the street because the right has more shadows. My pulse is loud in my ears now, but I keep my gait steady.
Almost there. Just have to cross at the light?—
Suddenly, the world tilts.
A dull, heavythudlands at the base of my skull. Not sharp like a blade. Not loud like a gunshot. Just…impact. Sudden and deep. My vision swims white at the edges. My legs buckle.
The sidewalk rushes up toward me but I don’t hit it.
