We reach a door halfway down the hall. Dark wood, brass handle, a discreet camera in the corner above it, red light glowing faintly. Anastasia keys in a code on the panel beside the frame, fingers swift and sure, then turns the handle and steps aside so I can enter first.
The guest suite is bigger than the apartments I’ve lived in since I ran.
The ceiling rises high above me, making the room feel larger than it already is. A soft, thick rug in deep blue and charcoal stretches across the floor, absorbing each step I take. The beddominates the space with its carved headboard and white linens so crisp they almost shine in the dim light. Heavy curtains are pulled across the tall windows, though a faint glow from the city still leaks in at the edges. A fireplace sits along one wall, dark for now but stacked with logs ready to catch at the first spark. On the bookshelf, tucked between hardbound volumes, sits the tiny brass compass I found in a street market and insisted was lucky. Next to it lies the chipped ceramic fox I bought on a whim because it reminded me of a story my mother used to tell. Even the old bookmark I embroidered with clumsy red thread rests exactly where I left it, on top of a novel I never finished. None of these pieces belong in a room like this, yet Sergei kept every one. He could’ve given them away or thrown them out years ago, but he didn’t.
My stomach twists and my shoulders tense as if I expect a hand to land on them.
“This is your wardrobe,” Anastasia says, crossing to a tall armoire and opening it so I can see inside. Hangers. Clean clothes already arranged, neutral colors, the sizes almost exactly right. “The bathroom is through there.”
She indicates a door to the right. I catch a glimpse of pale tile, a freestanding tub, chrome fixtures, more luxury than I have let myself imagine in years. “There is a call button by the bed if you require anything. Food, medicine, additional linens.” Her tone saysdon't abuse the privilege.
“What about fresh identities?” I ask, keeping my tone even, as if it’s a routine request. “Slightly used lives. New joints for all the bones I broke out there.”
She ignores that. “You are not to leave this floor without an escort. You are not to access any house systems. Cameras,routers, terminals. You are not to approach the main gate without clearance.”
“In other words, cage,” I say with a small, humorless curve of my mouth.
Her jaw tightens. She looks at me without blinking. “In other words,” she says, “you are still breathing. Many are not. And you came here to ask for help. You remain lucky he granted it.”
For all her short sentences, she’s pretty great at making stuff land.
Faces flash in my mind. Women whose names I only knew from files. A bouncer’s girlfriend. A bartender who once delivered a message for me because she had soft eyes and believed in tips, not politics. A bookkeeper who asked once if I thought this job was safe.
It was. Until it wasn’t.
The first time the Courier’s work brushed against my life, it wasn’t personal. It was a case file whispered through the syndicate channels—a girl from another district, another crew, found in pieces that fit too neatly into a black box. First a finger. Then a hand. Then the rest. By the time the fragments of her story reached me, there was nothing left for anyone to save.
Back then, I lived under Sergei’s protection. I ate at his table, slept in his bed, and worked behind his screens. I spent my nights hacking into accounts he marked for seizure, tracing shell companies built to hide stolen shipments, and tightening the firewalls around the digital skeleton of the empire he carved out of four cities. Code was my weapon. Silence was my training. I believed I understood the world I was helping him build.
I also believed monsters slipped in through cracks we failed to seal.
I was wrong. Monsters like the Courier aren’t accidents. They are shaped in the blind corners we refuse to examine, sharpened by the orders we give and the ones we’re too afraid to question.
“Mr. Baranov instructed me to collect your phone,” Anastasia says.
The present snaps back into focus. The room. The bed. Her standing there with her hands folded neatly in front of her apron, patience already thinning. Of course he wants my phone. He never liked unknown variables, and my life is one long string of them now.
“How thoughtful,” I say. “Worried I will call a cab and sneak out the back in the middle of the night?”
“He said your devices are compromised,” she replies, her face as still as the rest of her. “Until his men clear them, they are a risk to you and to this house.”
He’s right, as usual. That’s the irritating part.
I take my phone from my pocket. The screen is cracked at one corner, the glass spiderwebbed from a drop from a stairwell last month. The case is scuffed. Nadia’s photo is still set as the background, her hair a dark halo, her eyes storm grey like his. My chest tightens and I work quickly, doing a quick factory reset. Sergei won’t go snooping, but I’m not taking chances. Once I’m done, I hand the phone to her and she closes cold, long fingers over it. The name tag on her apron catches the light again as she turns.
“Rest,” she says. “Dinner will be sent up in due time.”
Sleep. As if the last five years didn’t train my body to wake at every shift in air.
“It’s still early,” I say, my voice smooth, harmless.
She looks at the clock on the wall. The hands point close to three. “Dawn comes early in winter.”
She moves to the door.
“Anastasia,” I say.
She pauses, fingers on the handle. A small thread of curiosity pulls through her composure.
