My burner vibrates on the table. I pick it up on the first pulse.
I take it into the kitchen and close the door halfway. The screen lights my hands bright blue. The number is one I keep for bad hours. One man. One line.
I answer without speaking.
“You should know,” he says, no greeting. Gleb Sokolov, ex-military, old school, dry. “Your girl’s name is moving.”
“How?” I ask. I ignore ‘your girl’.
“Side channels. Committee chatter. Not formal yet.”
“Aligned with whom?”
“The council,” he says. “One faction is pushing hard to finalize her placement. They want it done quickly. Another is stalling. No one’s neutral.”
I picture the room, men seated, voices calm, hands still, reducing Ana’s life to a set of outcomes that fit their schedules.
“Timeline?” I say.
“Shortening,” he replies. “Funeral wasn’t an outlier. It was a test. You interfered.”
I don’t correct him.
“They’re talking remarriage,” he continues. “Sooner than planned. It will restore the board.”
“Restore the board with whom?” I say. I want names.
He gives me two. I file them away without comment.
“You’re exposed,” he adds. “Your presence is being read as an influence.”
“Good,” I say.
There’s a pause. “You keep pushing when you should be positioning. But you always did confuse pressure with leverage.”
“Keep your opinions to yourself,” I say. “Don’t comment on what you don’t understand.”
“Fine,” he replies. “It’s your rope. Pull it tight or let it slacken. Your choice. Just be careful.”
I end the call.
Think, I tell myself. I stand in the dark a moment longer. The plan forms fast. Routes first. Safe exits. Men who’ll answer, men who won’t. Places to disappear. Places to make a point.
I find a scrap of paper and write it all down. I’ve got a good memory, but a written list makes the shape clearer. I go over it three times until it sits tight in my brain.
In the kitchen, I flip on the gas stovetop and set the paper to flame. The edges curl, then blacken. Ash falls. I wash it down the drain and watch the swirl disappear.
I move back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips. The room still smells of her skin, heat, and a trace of risk that hasn’t left. Ana stirs but doesn’t wake. Her hand finds the sheet where I was and tightens.
I still don’t move.
I watch her instead. The faint bruise on her collarbone. The line of her mouth. The scar under her lip she never mentions. The marks of a life that learned to absorb impact and keep going.
I reach out and brush my knuckle along her wrist, just enough to feel her pulse. Strong and steady, alive. She won’t fall and I won’t let her. I pull my hand back and stand.
I brush my teeth and dress quietly. Shoes first, then yesterday’s shirt, given a quick shake. The jacket follows. It’s black, brokenin, easy. I pull the Glock from the side table, check the slide, the mag, the chamber. Then again. Once I’m satisfied, I place it in the holster at my hip, grip angled just right.
Then I grab the blade, grip scuffed from use, but perfect balance. It slides into my boot. Nothing extra, just what I trust. I take the chair by the window and sit as the sky begins to thin from black to gray.
