“Okay. Have fun,” she says, too casual to be real.
I nod once, roll the window up, and pull out before she can change her mind.
Quickly I drive out of the compound, the gate opens.
Then closes behind me.
The second I’m on the road, my pulse starts climbing again.
Katya might tell him.
Actually, no. She probably will, not because she thinks I’m running, but because that’s how this world works—women mention where they’re going, men know, security tracks it, nobody disappears by accident.
Which means I need to move fast.
I keep both hands on the wheel and force myself to breathe evenly.
I make it to my old apartment in less time than usual. I hop out of the car and rush inside.
The apartment is still ugly in all the same familiar ways. Stained ceiling. Cheap cabinets. The smell of old water and bad insulation.
It should make me feel steadier, coming back to a place I survived on my own.
It doesn’t.
It just feels small.
Like I already outgrew it the second I let myself belong somewhere else.
I grab my old backpack, pull out the seventeen thousand and shove it into my bag. I zip the bag, sling it over my shoulder, and leave.
The second I’m in the car again, I lock the doors.
My phone is already in my hand before I start driving.
I pull up flights with shaking fingers and book the first one to Chicago that leaves soon enough to be useful and far enough to be loud. Onhiscard. Expensive. Stupid.Obvious.
Perfect.
If Maksim starts looking fast—and he will, he’ll see the booking. He’ll chase the thing that looks like me running in a straight line.
Chicago can be my ghost.
I send the confirmation to my email, then log out of everything I can think of while stopped at a red light, pulse hammering hard enough to numb my fingertips.
Then I order a rideshare to the airport.
Another layer. Another wrong turn. Something bright for him to chase while I keep moving.
By the time I ditch the car in a parking garage, I’m numb.
I crush my phone under my boot beside the car and walk the rest of the way to the train station.
The station smells like burned coffee, wet concrete, and too many people trying not to look at each other.
I keep my head down and move with the crowd, backpack over one shoulder, duffel gripped tight in my hand. Every second I expect to hear my name barked behind me. Expect one of Maksim’s men to catch my arm.
Nothing.
