Whatever she sees on my face, it has Katya’s mouth tilting up at one corner.
She takes the phone out of my hand without breaking eye contact, her fingers cool against my fingers where they linger there for a second longer than they need to be. I know it’s not intentional, but it feels like the same kind of power play a predator would use when it leans in close and dares you not to flinch away.
“You can just admit you were trying to eavesdrop,” she says casually.
I stiffen. “I wasn’t?—”
I stop myself.
There’s no use lying to someone like her. Lying to people likethem,for that matter. They are not the types who miss the tightening of a throat or the shift in a gaze. They’re professionals. You can’t out-bluff someone who’s lived their entire life surrounded by liars and knows exactly how to spot them and punish them for it.
“I didn’t want to be in the way,” I admit.
Katya’s eyes narrow. Her gaze slices over me like a scalpel, dissecting the layers beneath the words. Measuring what the hell I mean by them and figuring out what I’mnotsaying. It isn’t the truth she seems to be after, more like what I’m not saying orwhyI chose that particular admittance. It makes me look more like a martyr, urges them to show me more sympathy if I pretend that I’m trying to behave and keep out of eye sight.
Katya can see right through it. Of course she can. Out of the three of them here, I’m scared of her the most.
Behind her, Matvey clears his throat quietly before returning his attention to one of the monitors in front of him. Andrey does the same, his eyes glancing back down to the laptop he’s typing on. I feel the shift in the room’s temperature, subtle, but there. The tension is suspended in the air like a held breath.
Finally, Katya moves again.
With a quick flick of her wrist, she tosses the burner phone onto the table. It hits the wood with a loud clatter, bouncing once before skidding to a stop near a half-empty mug of stale, cold coffee. The sound makes me flinch, even though I try not to let it show.
“You want to help? Then help,” she says, already turning her attention back to the maps and screens in front of her.
She jerks her chin toward the far end of the table where a precarious stack of printed documents and grainy photos is stacked together in a messy pile. “Sort those images by timestamp, then cross-reference them against the satellite pings on the data pulls Matvey printed. Should be a match between the angles and the known camera locations. If you get stuck, ask. Otherwise, don’t screw it up.”
Her voice isn’t harsh. She speaks in a way I’d imagine someone would to a temp hired for a job that needed to be done yesterday. It’s not meant to cut, but it still reminds me exactly where I stand with them.
I nod wordlessly, grateful for something to do that doesn’t involve spiraling into the what-ifs of Leo’s fate or the slow, building weight of the secret I’m keeping from Maksim.
The chair screeches faintly as I pull it out and lower myself into it. It’s stiff and narrow, not meant for comfort, but I don’t care. My fingers reach for the pile, already organizing the chaos with a mechanical sort of focus.
Divide by timestamp. Align with footage angles. Match with locations…
The first few are street cam screen grabs, the quality just grainy enough to feel surreal. In one, I’m stumbling across a crosswalk. My arm is wrapped around my middle, my eyes are wide, darting toward something just out of frame. In another, I’m standing frozen on a street corner, looking the wrong way down the road and very clearly lost.
I remember that moment. The burn of confusion, the dull ache in my temple from whatever sedative was still wearing off, the way the world felt like it was spinning too fast beneath my feet and I didn’t know whether to scream or run or curl up into a ball on the sidewalk.
My hands tremble slightly as I lift another printout. This one is worse.
It’s a tighter shot that someone must’ve enhanced of my face. The woman in the photo doesn’t look like me. She looks like someone who has already been through the worst of it and is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. She looks terrified, running from whatever direction she’d been coming from.
A pit forms in my stomach.
I flip to the next image, then the next. Each one is a snapshot of vulnerability I hadn’t realized was being documented. Every grainy still feels like an invasion, proof of how broken I looked when I was searching for someone to find me.
Maybe I still am that way. I just haven’t looked in the mirror yet.
The door to the safehouse thuds shut behind whoever’s just come in, the sound slicing through the room’s quiet hum. Two sets of boots hit the worn floorboards as they head for us.
I look up just in time to see Maksim striding into the living room, coat unfastened, his shoulders squared and confident. His eyes find mine before anyone else’s. There’s somethingin them that tightens the center of my chest, a softness I’ve missed seeing.
A small smile tugs at his lips.
His gaze drops to the stack of files and photos I’ve been sorting, and when his eyes lift to meet mine again, they hold a silent question.
I don’t get the chance to answer before he’s focused his attention back on to his inner circle. “We found some interesting information regarding our favorite school teacher fiancée. She never showed up to work this morning.”