Not gunfire—something more primal. Flesh hitting flesh. Bodies crashing into walls. The kind of fighting that happens when men run out of bullets and resort to older methods.
My head is foggy from sedatives, but training kicks in. I roll off the bed, crouching behind it as the door bursts open.
A guard stumbles backward, already falling. Mikhail follows, blood streaming from a fresh cut above his eye, moving like death incarnate.
"Mikhail?"
He spins toward me, and for a moment I think I'm hallucinating. The drugs, the grief—my mind creating what I need to see.
"Mariana." His voice is rough, desperate. "We have to move. Now."
"You're dead. I saw—"
"Blanks. Fake blood. Harrison's game." He pulls me up, checking me for injuries even as shouts echo from the hallway. "Can you run?"
"You're really here?"
"I'm here. But not for long if we don't move."
My body believes what my mind can't process. I'm already moving, muscle memory overriding shock. The monitoring cables rip away as I stand, alarms immediately screaming.
"This way." He leads me out but not toward the main corridor. Instead, we duck into what looks like a supply closet. "They'll expect us to run for the exits."
"Won't we?"
"Eventually. First, we need weapons."
He's already moving medical supplies aside, revealing what looks like an old ventilation grate. "These warehouses all have the same layout. Pavel never changes what works."
"You've been here before?"
"Similar place. Three years ago." He pulls the grate free. "Can you fit?"
The vent is narrow, dark. My shoulder throbs from the previous gunshot wound, and my body is still weak from drugs and stress. But Mikhail is alive. Impossibly, miraculously alive.
"I'll fit."
We crawl through darkness, metal cold under my palms. Behind us, Harrison's voice echoes: "Find them! They can't have gone far!"
"Left here," Mikhail whispers.
The vent opens into another room—this one filled with old office furniture and dust. But also, blessed sight, a weapons cache. Pavel's paranoia means weapons stashed everywhere.
Mikhail arms himself efficiently—Glock, knife, extra magazines. He hands me a compact pistol. "How's your aim?"
"Good enough."
"Your shoulder?"
"Fine."
Then silence. Just for a second. He studies my face in the dim light."I watched you die."
"I'm sorry. I couldn't—there wasn't time to—"
"I know. Apologies later. Escape now."
He almost smiles. "There's my little wolf."
