His chest.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat—too fast.
The weight of his arms holding me like I matter.
The sound of his voice cutting through the noise around us, low and controlled.
“What happened?” someone asks—distant.
“Move,” Timofey says sharply.
Footsteps. Voices. Panic bleeding into the edges of the room.
But I can’t focus on any of it.
My cheek rests against him as he moves.
Each step is solid. Certain.
I feel his grip tighten slightly, like he’s anchoring me to something real.
Something safe.
But I still can’t speak.
Can’t respond.
Can’t explain what’s happening inside me.
Only fragments remain.
Movement.
Heat.
The pounding of his heart against my ear.
And then—a door opening.
I’m lowered carefully onto something soft. A bed.
The sensation is distant, like it’s happening to someone else.
But I feel his hands still there for a moment—steadying me, making sure I don’t slip further.
Voices fill the room.
Timofey’s voice cuts through first.
“Call a doctor. Now.”
There’s movement—fast, urgent—but before anyone can respond, another voice interrupts.
“Sir…forgive me for being forward, but a doctor will be too late.”
The room shifts.
I can’t turn my head, but I recognize the voice anyway.
