I understand every word. Questions about money, about shipments, about who gave the orders. Answers that come too slowly, that contradict earlier statements.
I feel nothing watching this. No pity. No disgust. Just cold assessment of whether the information is useful, whether the man has value. Whether he lives or dies.
The decision is mine to make. I know this with absolute certainty. His life is in my hands, and I'm weighing it dispassionately. Practically. Without sentiment or mercy.
I step forward, into the light, and the man sees me. His one good eye widens, and he starts begging in earnest. "Please, please, I'll do anything. I have a family. Kids. Please."
I look down at him, and I feel the weight of authority, of power, of absolute control over another human being's fate. It should horrify me. Instead, it feels natural. Right. Like this is who I am, what I do.
My mouth opens to speak, to render judgment, but before the words come, the memory fragments, dissolving like smoke.
I'm back in the cabin, my heart pounding, my skin slick with cold sweat. The sheets are tangled around my legs.
The memory came while I was awake, lying here in the dark.
I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. The image of the man in the chair won't leave me. The smell of blood and fear seems to linger even though I know it's not real, not here.
But it was real once. I was there.
What kind of man watches torture with clinical detachment? What kind of man holds life and death in his hands and feels nothing?
A dangerous man. A criminal. Possibly a monster.
And John Davis recognized me. Which means whatever I am, whatever I've done, it's significant enough to be memorable.
I throw off the covers and pad barefoot through the dark cabin. My mind turns over possibilities, each one darker than the last.
Maybe I'm a criminal. Maybe that's why someone shot me and left me to die. Maybe I deserved it.
But what does it mean for Maya?
She saved my life, took me in, and nursed me back to health. And in return, I might have brought danger to her doorstep. If John Davis recognized me, others might too. And if I'm the kind of man who makes decisions in basements while people bleed, then the people looking for me probably aren't the forgiving type.
I find myself at the window, staring out at the moonlit snow. The landscape is beautiful and alien, all silver and shadow, nothing like the concrete and steel that feels more familiar. Somewhere in my past, there are cities. Streets that never sleep and people who move through darkness like sharks through water.
That's my world. Not this peaceful mountain isolation.
Movement catches my eye. Maya, standing at her bedroom window, her silhouette backlit by faint light. She's motionless, and something about her posture speaks of exhaustion that goes beyond physical tiredness.
This is a woman carrying her own weight of secrets and fears.
I should go back to bed. Instead, I cross to her door and knock softly on the frame.
No answer.
"Maya?"
She doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge my presence, just keeps staring out at the night like she's searching for something in the darkness.
I cross the room slowly, giving her time to tell me to leave. She doesn't. When I'm close enough to touch, I reach out and rest my hand on her shoulder.
She flinches violently, spinning to face me with wide eyes and a sharp intake of breath that sounds like fear.
11
LENA
Ispin around so fast, I nearly lose my balance, my heart trying to punch through my ribs. Sasha stands there in the darkness of my bedroom, his hand still raised from where he touched my shoulder, his gold eyes reflecting the moonlight streaming through the window.