Elena.
Her voice is steadier than the panic around her.
“We have something in the garden I can use to make a mixture for her. It won’t take ten minutes. Please let me do it.”
A pause.
Sharp. Heavy.
Like the entire room is waiting to see what breaks first.
Then Timofey speaks again—closer now, right above me.
“Do it,” he says immediately.
A beat.
Then colder, controlled:
“You have ten minutes. If you pass it—you’re fired.”
I want to react to that.
To argue.
To tell him that’s not fair.
But nothing comes out.
Not even air properly forming into words.
Instead, the world blurs again at the edges.
Footsteps explode into motion. A door slams so hard it rattles through the walls.
And then—silence, for half a second. Before I feel it. A hand brushing my hair back. Careful. Almost trembling with restraint.
And then—a soft kiss pressed to my forehead.
Timofey.
Still here.
Elena returns almost immediately.
I barely register movement before Timofey is shifting me—careful, controlled, keeping me upright as if I might slip away again if he lets go for even a second.
“Milaya,” he murmurs against my ear, low and steady. “Stay with me.”
Something cold touches my lips.
A glass.
Then liquid.
Forced gently but firmly into my mouth.
It’s bitter.
