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Irina gets me through the west wing at a pace meant for old men and stubborn criminals. The medical bay smells of antiseptic and clean linen, and the harsh white light leaves me feeling stripped bare.

I submit to the temperature check, blood pressure cuff, abdominal inspection, fresh dressing, scheduled medication, and enough questions to make death seem less invasive.

“No fever,” Irina says, closing the medical case. “No fresh bleeding. Your lungs sound better.”

“I’ve always been an excellent patient.”

“You left the hospital against medical advice.”

“An excellent patient with scheduling conflicts.”

She gives me a look, then walks me to my bedroom and settles me at the small table near the windows. Mrs. Wentworth has sent clear chicken broth with rice, soft bread, sliced pear, and black tea with lemon.

Irina lifts every lid and places the broth within reach. “Finish the broth.”

“I’m not six.”

“Then you shouldn’t need supervision.”

She remains until I swallow several spoonfuls and drink half the tea. Only then does she return my phone.

“Four hours,” she says, tapping the medication schedule beside my plate. “Don’t make me hunt you again.”

“You found me asleep in a library.”

“You’re filed under Easy Prey.”

The door closes behind her.

I finish the broth because resistance has lost its entertainment value, then carry the tea into the bathroom. Cold water clears the stale taste from my mouth. I wash my face and pass one hand over a week of black stubble.

The electric razor waits beside the sink.

I cover my jaw with foam and study the man in the mirror. High cheekbones, a nose knocked slightly crooked in a fight I won badly at nineteen, a pale scar cutting through my right eyebrow and another fading into my temple. The beard makes me look older than thirty-six and rough enough that most men think twice before testing me. When the razor clears the first line along my cheek, it only makes the rest of my face look harder.

I’ve never had a problem with that. Looking like a man who might break your jaw saves time. Most people cooperate before I have to ask twice.

A shadow moves behind me.

I keep the razor near my jaw and shift my focus toward the mirror’s corner. The shape disappears behind the half-open bathroom door.

I smile and continue shaving.

The razor passes beneath my chin. I rinse it, wipe the remaining foam away, and pat aftershave across my skin while the shadow returns behind the curtain near the bedroom wall.

“Poor technique,” I say to my reflection. “The feet are visible.”

The shadow jerks back.

I pull on a clean black shirt, leave it open, and shove the sleeves to my elbows. Blood loss has taken something out of me, but it hasn’t made me look harmless. The shirt strains across my shoulders and arms, hiding the cathedral and wolf on my back while leaving the black star at my collarbone and the prison script on my forearm exposed. Lower down, the chess knight shows between the open edges of the shirt, cut through by bruises and fresh tape.

I look injured. I don’t look weak.

I run one hand over my shaved jaw, walk toward the wardrobe, then turn without warning and pull the curtain aside.

Misha tumbles forward.

I catch him beneath the arms before his knees hit the floor. His yellow race car bounces once on the rug and rolls beneath the table.