I jam the tip of the blade into the first screw and start turning. The metal resists my efforts at first, but I apply steady pressure until it begins to loosen.
"I'm going in here, fine," I say, my voice strained with effort as I work the screw free. "What about you?"
Victor doesn't answer immediately. I pause, glancing down at him before continuing.
"Once you're up there," he says finally, "you'll need to find another way to let me out. Or cause a distraction. Either works."
I stop unscrewing and stare down at him. The idea of leaving him alone in this room sends a wave of unease through me that I can't ignore.
"I don't like leaving you."
Victor smiles, and it's that same infuriating, confident smile that makes me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure.
"I know it'll be hard not to be with me, but I'll be fine. I always am."
I scoff, turning back to the vent. "That's not as reassuring as you think it is."
The first screw drops, and I move on to the second. This one comes free more easily, spinning with little effort. The third, however, is stubborn. The threads are stripped, the head worn smooth, and I have to wedge the knife tip into the groove at an angle just to get any traction.
My palms are sweating, and the handle of the knife slips slightly. I adjust my grip, cursing under my breath. Victor's hands remain steady on my body, holding me in place as I struggle with the screw. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, it gives. I yank it free and toss it aside, the small piece of metal clattering somewhere in the darkness below.
The fourth screw takes even longer. My shoulders burn with the strain of holding my arms above my head, and my fingers ache from gripping the knife so tightly. But I refuse to stop. I picture the men outside that door, picture them storming in, picture Victor alone and defenseless, and I push through the pain.
At last, the final screw comes loose. I pull the grate free, holding it carefully to avoid making noise, and hand it down to Victor. He sets it aside, then reaches up to steady me again.
"Flashlight," I say, holding out my free hand.
He passes it to me without a word, and I shine the beam into the vent. The vent is wider than I thought, and stretches ahead, disappearing into darkness. It smells of dust and old, stagnant air. Cobwebs cling to the corners, and I can see smudges of rust along the interior walls.
"Ugh, I really don't like this," I say.
Victor's voice is gentle but firm. "I know, but you have to do this."
I look down at him, searching his face in the dim light. His jaw is set, his eyes steady. He believes in me. Trusts me. And for some reason, that belief matters more than anything else right now.
Before I can respond, Victor pulls me down quickly, his hand cupping the back of my neck. His lips crash against mine, fast and fierce. I kiss him back with equal intensity, pouring everything I can't say into that single moment. When we break apart, I'm almost breathless.
"You better not die," I say in a low tone.
"I'll do my best," he says, then tosses my gun up into the vent, followed by the flashlight. Both clatter softly against the metal, and I wince at the noise, but there's no reaction from outside the door.
I hesitate, glancing back at him. "You'll be in the dark."
Victor just nods. "It's been that way most of my life, until you came into it," he says, not even giving me a moment to respond to that. "Now go."
He lifts me, and I grip the edge of the vent. With a grunt of effort, I pull myself up, my arms straining as I haul my body into the shaft. The metal is cold against my skin.
Once I'm inside, I start crawling.
I have to keep my elbows tucked close to my body to avoid making noise. I let my arms do all the pulling, dragging my body forward inch by inch. The metal shifts softly beneath my weight, and I freeze each time, holding my breath and waiting to see if anyone heard, but no one does.
My forearms hit the cold metal repeatedly, the skin already tender from the effort. My shoulders burn with exertion, but I refuse to stop. Every second I waste is another second Victor is alone in that room.
The shooting stops completely, and light suddenly spills in from a vent farther ahead.
They turned the lights back on.
I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. Below me, through the thin metal, I hear men talking in Russian. Their voices are muffled but clear enough for me to make out the words.
