He’s afraid.
“Do it,” I rasp. Blood bubbles at my lips. “Pull the trigger.”
His finger tightens.
Mother screams.
Everything goes black.
***
White.
Toowhite.
The air smells like bleach and plastic and something wrong.
My eyes slit open—light stabs through the haze. Where am I? My tongue is sandpaper. My throat’s been razed.
I move.
No.
Straps. Across my chest. My arms. My legs.
Panic slams into my ribcage. I thrash. The bed squeaks. Metal groans.
I growl, animal-low, teeth clenched.
“Shh… S toboy vse v poryadke.”
The voice cuts through the fog.
Russian. Soft. Familiar. Perfume follows her, gardenias and guilt. I blink hard, focus—Brown hair. Pale eyes. Dr. Moronov.
Vaska’s mother.
Her gloved hand touches my face.
Gentle.
“S toboy vse v poryadke,” she whispers again.You’re fine.
“I know you’re scared,” she says, switching to English. “And I’m sorry. But you need to listen.”
I try to speak; my jaw clicks, throat raw.
She leans closer.
“There was no way to hide the massacre, Maksim. Not this time.”
My stomach sinks.
“No prison,” she says quickly. “No trial. No jury.”
Then softer, like a secret. “You’re not going to prison… but youcan’tstay.”
I shake my head.
