ANYA
I don’t go backto the room above the pharmacy.
I can’t. Not with blood on my dress, one heel missing, and the shape of a dead man still burned behind my eyes.
For almost an hour, I walk without knowing where I’m going. My feet hurt so badly that pain becomes background noise. The city is colder at night than I expect. Wind cuts through the thin dress Marina gave me, and every passing car makes me flinch.
At some point, I find a small hotel near the station.
Not a good hotel. Not even a decent one. The sign outside flickers. The lobby smells like bleach, old smoke, and wet coats. A man behind the counter looks me over once and decides what I am before I even speak.
“Room please,” I finally say.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asks, giving me a once-over again.
Short dress. Smudged makeup. Loose hair. Cash in hand.
He thinks I’m a hooker.
A week ago, that would have shattered me. Tonight, I don’t care.
“Room,” I repeat.
His eyes drop briefly to the red marks on my dress.
He notices, but men like him are paid not to ask questions, and I have enough cash from the tips at Venera to buy his silence for one night.
He slides a key across the counter. “Top floor. End of the hall.”
I take it.
The room is small and damp, with faded wallpaper, one narrow bed, and curtains that don’t close all the way. The bathroom light buzzes when I turn it on. There’s a crack in the mirror running through my reflection, splitting my face in two.
I stare at myself for a long time.
There’s blood on my thigh. Blood on the hem of the dress. A few small drops near my hip. Not mine. My stomach turns, but there’s nothing left in it.
I scrub at my skin in the sink until it hurts. The water turns faintly pink, then clear. The dress is ruined, but I rinse the worst of it and hang it over the shower rail. Then I sit on the edge of the bed in my underwear and shake. I press both hands over my mouth to keep from making noise.
I should call someone. But who?
My father would drag me home and hand me back to the Volkovs if it saved him from embarrassment. Dmitri would make everything about himself. Marina might help, but I don’thave her number, and I don’t know if going back near Venera is safe.
So I crawl into bed with damp hair, bruised feet, and a chair shoved under the door handle.
I tell myself I will not sleep.
I do.
The nightmare starts in the hallway.
I’m back under the flickering light. The walls are wet. The floor is sticky beneath my bare feet. Music pounds somewhere far away, too slow and too deep, like a heart beating under the building.
Leonid is there. On his knees.
“You bitch,” he says.
Blood spills from his mouth when he smiles.
