The car was chaos.
The wounded man was in the back seat, his head in my lap, his blood soaking through my jeans. I kept pressure on the wound, my hands steady, my voice low. "You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine. Just keep breathing."
Viktor was driving. I didn't know where. The streets blurred past the windows—dark, empty, the city holding its breath. In the front seat, Aleksander was on the phone, speaking in low, rapid Russian. I didn't understand the words, but I understood the tone. He was cleaning up. Making calls. Putting out fires.
The wounded man's name was Mikhail. I'd learned that from the men who'd carried him. He was twenty-two years old, a new father, and he'd taken a bullet because he'd stepped in front of Aleksander.
"You're going to see your kid again," I told him. "But you need to stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Look at me."
He looked at me. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but he was trying. I could see him trying.
"That's it," I said. "Keep looking at me."
The car swerved. Viktor was muttering something under his breath, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Aleksander had hung up the phone and was turned in his seat, watching me work.
"How bad?" he asked.
"He'll live. But he needs a hospital. A real one. Not me."
"There's a doctor. On retainer. We're going there now."
I nodded. I didn't ask questions. I just kept pressure on the wound, kept talking to Mikhail, kept my hands steady.
The city fell away behind us. The buildings grew smaller, the streets darker, and then we were in a part of town I didn't recognize—industrial, abandoned, the kind of place where no one would hear a scream.
Viktor pulled up to a building that looked like a warehouse but smelled like antiseptic. Men came out to meet us—not guards, but men in white coats, carrying a stretcher. They took Mikhail from the car, and I watched them carry him inside, his blood on my hands, my clothes, the seat of the car.
I sat in the back seat and listened to my heart slow down.
The door opened. Aleksander slid in beside me.
"You could have died."
His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. But there was something underneath it—something that sounded like anger, or fear, or both.
"I didn't," I said.
"You don't get to risk yourself. Not for them. Not for anyone." He turned to face me, and the grey of his eyes was dark, storm-dark, the color of thunderheads. "Do you understand?"
"Then what am I here for?"
The question hung in the air between us. The car was silent—Viktor had stepped out, closing the door behind him, leaving us alone in the dark.
Aleksander looked at me for a long time.
"For me," he said.
The words landed like stones in still water. Rippling. Expanding. Filling every corner of the car, every corner of my chest.
"For you," I repeated.
"You're not a soldier. You're not a medic for hire. You're not a tool I use and discard." He reached out—slowly, giving me time to pull away—and touched my face. His palm was warm against my cheek, his fingers rough with calluses. "You're mine, Monika. You have been since the night you pulled that bullet from my side. I just didn't say it out loud until now."
I should have pulled away. I should have opened the door and walked into the night and never looked back.
But I didn't.
I leaned into his touch instead.
