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She’s everything. My heart, my soul, the very fucking air in my lungs.

And I will burn the world to ash before I let her go.

So I stand there, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my eyes fixed on the horizon like I can will her back to me through sheer desperation alone.

The minutes tick by, each one a lifetime of agony and uncertainty. I’m back in my study, going over all the information I have while directing my men, my mind churning with worst-case scenarios and sickening possibilities.

They have her. They have Katerina.

The thought is unbearable but as I watch the sun sink below the treeline, the shadows lengthening, I hope beyond hope that the next time my phone rings, we’ll have finally found her.

That she’s coming home.

To me.

19

KATERINA

The lights are blinding, the sterile white of the OR walls closing in around me.

The patient lies on the table, face obscured by the surgical drape, a still, silent form amidst the chaos.

I look down at my hands, at the scalpel gripped between my gloved fingers.

The blade is slick with blood, the crimson stain spreading across the pristine blue of my gown. There’s so much of it, too much. It’s everywhere, coating the instruments, the drapes, the floor, and me.

I can’t remember how I got here. How did I get to this moment? But I know, with a bone-deep, sickening certainty, that I’m losing them.

Despite all my skills, all my training, the life beneath my hands is slipping away.

The monitors scream a cacophony of alarms and warning tones. The patient’s vitals are crashing, their heartbeat a frantic, erratic rhythm that I can feel beneath my fingertips.

I call out for help desperately, my voice echoing off the walls of the empty room.

But no one comes. I’m alone, just me and this faceless, dying patient. The weight of their life, the responsibility, it crashes over me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.

I work frantically, my hands moving on autopilot, attempting procedures I can barely remember the names of. Chest compressions, intubation, defibrillation and each action is more desperate than the last, each one failing to stem the inexorable tide of death.

The blood keeps coming, welling up from some unseen wound, some damage I can’t find. It coats my hands and arms, warm and slick and endless. The coppery scent of it fills my nostrils, my lungs, until I’m choking on it, drowning in it.

Then, above the screaming of the monitors, above the pounding of my own heart, I hear it. A cold and cruel laugh, echoing through the room like a death knell.

I look up, my blood-soaked hands frozen in mid-air. There, across the operating table, stands a figure. They’re dressed all in black, face hidden in shadow. But I can feel their eyes on me, and can feel the weight of their malevolent gaze.

They speak, their voice a rasping whisper that cuts through the chaos like a blade.

“You can’t save them, Doctor. You can’t save any of them.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. They stick in my throat, choking me, as the figure begins to move. It circles the table, drawing closer with each measured step.

“You’re not good enough. You’re not strong enough. You’re going to fail, just like you always do.”

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. I try to run, but I’m frozen, paralyzed by a terror that goes beyond reason.

The figure looms over me now, their face inches from mine. Even though I can’t see their features, I know they’re smiling and it’s a cruel, twisted thing, full of malice and hunger.

The figure reaches out, their cold hand closing around my throat, squeezing, cutting off my air. I can feel the strength going out of me, I can feel the darkness closing in…