Sharp.
Green and sour, like crushed leaves and something older underneath it.
I cough immediately, trying to pull away, but a hand steadies the back of my head.
“Easy,” Timofey’s voice soothes, closer now. “Easy…breathe.”
I splutter again, but more of it goes down this time.
Warmth follows almost instantly.
Not comfort.
Not yet.
But relief.
The tight, crushing pressure in my chest begins to loosen—slowly, like a knot being forced open.
My breathing steadies in fragments.
Inhalation.
Exhale.
Inhale again.
The world stops spinning quite so violently.
I open my eyes.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Timofey is still there—right in front of me, sitting on the bed now, one arm behind me like he’s afraid I’ll collapse if he doesn’t anchor me.
His jaw is tight.
Eyes sharper than I’ve ever seen them.
Not panic.
Control fighting panic.
Across the room, staff members stand frozen.
Shock. Fear. Uncertainty.
Elena is at the foot of the bed, hands clenched together so tightly her knuckles are white.
She looks like she’s holding her breath, waiting to be blamed.
When my eyes fully focus, she exhales sharply—like she’s been released from something.
“Thank God…” she whispers.
Timofey doesn’t move his gaze from me.
