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“And you’re in the room?”

Alexei unlocks his office door. “I’ll show them what we found and see who tries to defend Belov.”

The office overlooks the woods and the service garden. Paper files fill locked cabinets behind the long desk, while a chessboard sits near the window with a game half-finished.

Alexei opens a panel in the wall, and three dark screens come to life. “Kirill is handling the routes, so he’s sending Artem.”

I face him. “Who’s Artem?”

Alexei unlocks the cabinet. “Young, quick, and frightened enough of Kirill to follow instructions.”

He places the key beside my hand. The folders inside carry names from the hospital, New Harbor, Sable Crown, and Chernov’s SeverMed Services.

“Everything?” I ask, looking at the key.

“Everything connected to the medical route.” Alexei touches his side as he turns toward the door. “The safe stays closed.”

“I’m wounded by your show of faith in me.”

His gaze moves over my face. “You’ll recover.”

Artem arrives five minutes later carrying two laptops. He looks about twenty-five, with dark curls, square glasses, and a coffee stain on one sleeve.

“Kirill said you need the hospital backups,” he says, setting the laptops at the far end of the desk. “He also said I shouldn’t touch Mr. Orlov’s paper files.”

I slide the cabinet key toward him. “Mr. Orlov said I could use it.”

Artem looks at the key, then at the closed door. “He didn’t tell me.”

I nod. “Smart.”

He connects the first laptop to the screens while I open the folders. A message from Kira arrives before he finishes.

I found six emergency transfer sheets linked to Zarya. Sending them now.

The pages appear on the screen.

“Check the hospital numbers on these transfer sheets,” I tell Artem. “Use the old backup.”

His fingers move across the keys. The first hospital number belongs to a man treated six months before the date on the Zarya form. The second belongs to a woman who died two years ago. The third belongs to a real patient brought in with a wound blamed on a factory accident.

“The first two names are fake,” Artem says.

“The names are fake, but the hospital numbers are real. Someone reused old files so the pharmacy would give them the medicine.”

I pull the third patient’s file closer. The wound is high under the ribs, and the doctor removed pieces of metal from it. The clerk wrote that a machine caused the injury.

“This man was shot,” I say.

Artem enlarges the notes. “The doctor wrote Industrial Debris.”

“A bullet can break apart when it strikes bone. The pieces can look like metal debris if nobody asks where they came from.” I point to the transfer time. “He left before the police reached the ward.”

Artem opens the destination field. “Zarya again.”

I hand him the chart. “Check whether Zarya confirmed his arrival.”

Artem searches the clinic files, then shakes his head. “Nothing.”