The stench of the Albanian cells.
My stomach lurched. My lungs forgot how to work for a terrifying second, memory crashing into me with brutal force. I tasted bile.
My fingers curled into the fabric of the abaya, nails digging through the layers like I could claw my way out of the moment.
The truck rolled to a stop.
The driver cut the engine and turned slightly in his seat. “Wait here.”
He didn’t wait for a response.
He climbed out and headed toward the largest building at the center of the compound, his boots crunching against gravel that sounded far too loud in the sudden quiet.
I stayed frozen in the passenger seat.
My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else. My legs shook so violently I had to press my knees together to stop them rattling.
Every breath scraped my chest raw. The inside of the niqab felt too close, too tight. Panic clawed its way up my throat, sharp and animal.
I was back.
Back in the dark.
Back in chains.
Back where they’d broken me piece by piece and called it entertainment.
My gaze flicked toward the gate. It was still open. Just a few dozen meters away.
Run.
The thought flared hot and desperate.
But reality followed just as fast. I was deep in their territory. Surrounded. Watched. Even if I made it ten steps, I’d be dragged down before I reached the fence. Running now wouldn’t be escape—it would be surrender.
So I stayed.
The giant double doors of the main building groaned open, metal protesting as if it knew what lived behind it.
A figure stepped out.
Tall. Controlled. Impossible to miss.
Dressed head to toe in white—crisp linen shirt open at the collar, tailored trousers pressed to perfection, spotless white boots untouched by dust or blood. The contrast was stark, almost surreal against the grim gray of the compound.
Lethal grace in every step.
Dmitri Volkov.
He stopped a few paces away, the wind tugging at his shirt, lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the rigid lines of his frame.
His presence alone seemed to still the air. His eyes—those piercing, merciless blue eyes—locked onto mine through the narrow slit of the niqab.
My chest ached from how hard my heart was beating.
“I did it,” he said simply.
No flourish. No pride. Just fact.