Something inside me finally gives.
I turn away before she can move, before I see anything else, before I lose whatever control I’m still holding onto.
“I’ll be outside,” I say.
It comes out rougher than I intend.
Moronov meets my eyes. She understands immediately.
I leave the room without another word, the door closing softly behind me.
The hallway feels too small. Too bright.
I brace my hands on the wall and breathe through my nose, slow and controlled, counting until the images stop flashing behind my eyes.
Because if I stay—
I will kill someone.
It takes two agonizing hours of tests and imaging before Moronov steps out of the room for good.
“So?” I ask voice rough from disuse.
Moronov’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes tell me everything.
“Blood work’s clean, but she’s malnourished. Dehydrated. Multiple contusions in various stages of healing. Two cracked ribs—old injuries, partially healed. Bruising consistent with repeated blunt force trauma.”
My hands curl into fists.
“Sexual assault?” The words taste like acid.
“No evidence of that,” she says. “But she’s been systematically beaten. This wasn’t random violence, Maksim. Someone does this to her regularly.”
The hallway tilts. I force it straight again.
“How long?”
“Weeks. Maybe months. Some of these injuries are old. She’s been living with this.”
I don’t respond. Can’t.
Moronov continues, her voice softening just slightly. “She also has old fractures that healed improperly. Her left wrist. Two fingers on her right hand. A collarbone. These are years old.”
Years.
“Is she okay to walk on her own?” I ask.
“Yes. But she needs rest. Real rest. And food. Actual meals, not whatever she’s been surviving on.”
I nod once.
“I gave her something for the pain,” Moronov adds. “She refused anything stronger. She’s a stubborn girl.”
“Yeah.”
“Maksim.” Her hand touches my arm. “Whoever did this to her—if you find them, make sure they can’t be patched up after.”
I meet her eyes. “I will.”
