A slow, gnawing burn that twists your stomach until it feels like something inside you is eating itself alive.
Mine had been like that for years now—damaged, unpredictable. Sometimes it was a dull ache. Other times it came in sharp, crippling waves that forced me to double over, breathless, waiting for it to pass.
Five years on the run does that to a person.
No routine. No real food. No rest.
No life.
I couldn’t remember the last time my body felt normal.
My weight had dropped long ago. My strength came and went depending on when I last ate.
Even my own body had started turning against me—my menstrual cycles became irregular, and the pain became constant, like something inside me had been worn down beyond repair.
And the worst part?
You don’t get used to it.
Not the hunger. Not the weakness. Not the way your mind starts slipping when your body is pushed too far.
You just learn to endure it.
Barely.
I stared at the plate in front of me, my vision blurring slightly from how badly I needed it.
My hands trembled as I reached for the food, like my body didn’t quite trust that it was real, like it might be taken away if I hesitated too long.
I had barely taken three bites when I felt it—that subtle shift in the air, the quiet warning that had kept me alive all these years.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I didn’t look up immediately. I never do.
Instead, I let my gaze drift lazily toward the glass beside me, using the reflection to scan without drawing attention.
That’s when I saw them—two men standing across the street.
They weren’t even trying to hide it.
Their focus was too sharp, too fixed, the kind of attention that doesn’t waver. The kind that hunts.
Baranov’s men.
I knew it instantly. You don’t survive five years on the run without learning how predators look at their prey.
My stomach dropped, not from fear, but from calculation. Distance. Exits. Timing. Every detail mapped itself out in my mind with practiced precision.
By the time they started moving, I was already on my feet.
I didn’t run. Not yet.
Running draws attention. Running confirms suspicion.
So I walked—steady, forcing my body to move like nothing was wrong, like I hadn’t just signed myself up for another fight for survival.
One step. Then another.
