Russia was cold.

It was bitter and sharp, the kind of iciness that cut through layers and hurt in my fingertips. The heavy backpack on my shoulders was nice for extra insulation, but my toes were going numb as I stood outside the train station in the cold. I blew on my gloved hands, cupping them over my nose to heat it for just a second. My face hurt where Fischer had hit me when I did so, but at least it was numb, even if a little.

I'd arrived in Yekaterinburg about forty minutes ago by train. MI6 had dropped me at the airport terminal with a backpack—I still hadn't really looked inside, so I wasn't sure what I had, but I couldn't imagine I didn't have at least the basic necessities—and a passport, and I'd been flown to Moscow. I waited an hour for a train to Yekaterinburg, and had been standing outside for thirty minutes waiting for a bus to the city, where I'd meet a representative of the factory who would escort me there.

At least they hadn't sent me completely empty-handed. I'd like my watch from Smithers, but I'd left that in my duffle at L-Unit's place; the gadgets were definitely below his caliber, but I figured they'd come in handy. I had a small book with different photos in it—some were real, with Ian and my parents that twisted my heart the wrong way when I looked at them—and some where photoshopped, meant to add content to the book so it would be thicker. The ones that weren't real were markers for false pages.

Inside one was a blueprint of the facility with the hidden levels MI6 knew about, so I could investigate without having to explore blindly. Inside another was a file with some information on the personnel, and some things I could use to gain their trust. A couple others had some rubles in case I needed to bribe someone.

Inside another, which I actually thought was kind of brilliant, was a piece of firm, synthetic paper with fine wiring inside, connected to a twin device at MI6. There was a special stylus hidden in the spine of the album and, when I wrote on it, the letters would fade, but the message would be transferred via satellite to MI6. The twin device would work the same way—they could pass messages to me, as well.

They'd also given me another exploding earring (never mind that the hole from my last piercing had finally bloody closed). I had two this time, but I truly wasn't sure if a place as strict as this would let me keep them in, and that was going to be an awkward problem to solve.

Finally, I had glasses.

I'd never needed glasses since my vision was fine, and they took a bit of getting used to, but I figured they'd come in handy. The frames were thicker than I would've liked, but it gave a little extra room to hide the wiring and technology inside. There were four modes—normal, thermal, night vision, and zoom-in. There were two small screws on each side—four total—and depending on which one I pressed, the filters would change, but no one would see a difference from the outside.

There was another button hidden inside the very end of the left temple tip that I could press if I was discovered or in danger, and that would alert the team on standby. They were going to infiltrate as soon as gave the signal that I'd been discovered (so they said) or when I'd discovered the location of the bomb.

I did think that was kind of cool.

I'd changed into the bag Tolliver had given me—into a pair of thermal underwear, loose-fitting blue jeans, two pairs of socks under heavy boots, a long-sleeved undershirt, a sweater, a heavy coat, gloves, a scarf, ear muffs, and a hat. It had been an uncomfortably warm plane ride, but I was grateful for the layers now.

My breath clouded the air in front of me as I waited, people milling around, looking a lot more comfortable than I was. I supposed they were used to the cold.

Quick as lightning, a thought struck me—I could disappear here. No one would know. I had money, clothes, a couple essentials…I could be gone. The factory would just assume that I'd never made it or run away, and when they contacted the handler disguised as the orphanage director and told MI6, it wasn't like they would be able to find me.

I could disappear just as quickly as my breath faded to mist.

And then a dozen faces flashed before me, phantom negatives of home, and I knew that I couldn't.

It was a heavy decision, sour like blood and bitter like this cold, but it had never been a real choice.

The bus pulled to a tentative stop by the platform, wary of the ice and snow that clung to the streets. I adjusted the straps of my backpack and, after letting a daughter and mother go in front of me, boarded.

I was immediately grateful for the warmth, releasing a heavy sigh as I felt my face heat under the artificial lights. The bus was mostly empty, since it was so late at night, so there weren't many people—just me, the mother and daughter, the driver, and an older man and woman sitting arm in arm. I edged around their legs as I passed and made my way to the back, settling in the last row with my backpack in my lap, heaving a heavy sigh.

I put my head back and closed my eyes as the bus started moving again, grateful for the warmth and the peaceful quiet, for just a moment. The station had been loud with cars and TVs, and I appreciated the silence.

Tentatively, I voiced my thoughts as a quiet whisper, barely more than a breath around a confession, but no one heard.

"I miss you," I said, but it went unheard, in more ways than one.

I didn't even know who I was talking about anymore. Lion, Tiger, Bear? K-Unit? Tom? Maybe Ian, and Jack. Sabina. My parents.

I hoped Lion and Snake were getting better. I wondered if Lion had woken up yet. I hoped so.

I wondered if the others were looking for me. I was sure they were, but I wasn't sure how much they could do with Lion and Snake still in the hospital. A selfish part of me hoped they'd find me.

Then I remembered Elliott, and I hoped, in a dark, lonely crevice of my soul, that I never had to face them again, no matter how I desperately wanted to see them.

I closed my eyes as the warmth thawed me, accidentally dozing off in the silence. I jerked awake when I felt the brakes engage, earning disquieting looks from the older couple and the mother, but it was just the very next stop—it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. I hadn't missed my stop.

I took a breath of relief, calming my erratic heart, and sat back.

I wondered what it would be like. On most of my missions, I was alone—but here, it would be like Point Blanc. I'd have other kids around. I wondered if that would help me or hurt me in the long run. Maybe both. I wondered about the facilitators—they were smugglers, and awful people, but were they cruel? Did they put on a show for the kids, of honest, philanthropic souls, or were they sadistic, or controlling?

I hoped I'd remember my cover. I hoped I'd remember that everything had to be spoken in Russian.

Familiar fear burned, even in the still-numb core of my body, and I wondered how long I'd last here. I wondered if this would finally be the mission that killed me. Part of me hoped it would, if for no other reason than to spite Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones and Amell Fischer, and part of me hoped I'd live a little longer—that was the part of me clinging to hope even when I didn't see it anymore.

I blinked, hard and fast. I wouldn't become anything or get anywhere wallowing like I was. That wouldn't help me here, and it certainly wouldn't keep me alive.

I spent the rest of the trip mentally reviewing my cover story, going over the pronunciations of common Russian words that I'd always struggled with, even in fluency, and soon enough, we hit my stop.

The urge to stay on the bus was so strong that I almost missed the stop entirely trying to force myself up, but I did.

I descended down the steps and back into the snow, nodding a thank you to the driver, and the bus pulled away. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, but at the stop was a single woman on the bench who lifted her head at my approach. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she was looking at something on her phone.

"Alexei Aslanov?" She said, her Russian thick and strong.

"Yes," I responded, also in Russian.

She pocketed her phone and stood, stretching. "Let's go."

I blinked as she turned to leave, but I suppose I wasn't expecting a long-winded introduction. Maybe just a name.

I would have just let it go, but I knew that Alexei was supposed to be pretty rude—short-tempered and blunt, so no matter how I cringed, I muttered, "You could at least tell me your name."

"And you could keep your mouth shut, but dreams just don't come true," she responded, fishing a set of keys out of her pocket. A nearby van chirped as the lights flashed, and opened the driver's side door. "Get in the back, I don't want your disrespectful ass up front with me."

I rolled my eyes to keep up the charade, sliding into the backseat. I could have put my backpack in the seat next to me, but holding it felt like a shield, so I kept it in my lap. She started the engine without another word and drove off, cigarette still alight. It was too cold to have the windows down, so I fought not the choke on the smoke that made it back to me.

The ride was taken mostly in silence, but I wasn't complaining. About twenty minutes into the drive, the city started to thin, replaced by more trees and residential areas, until we were mostly in forest, driving carefully over snowy dirt roads.

I wanted to ask how deep in the forest we'd be—it seemed pretty remote for such a busy factory—but I didn't know if that was something Alexei would ask, and I didn't want to set the wrong precedent.

Instead, I watched intently as I could through the dark, trying to pick out landmarks or identifies in case I had to escape for some reason, but I couldn't see much that was useful through the snowy black. We did cross a bridge, which I filed away for later, just in case.

Lights pierced the darkness through the trees a few minutes later, and I watched as we approached a gigantic facility. It was truly massive, and I did study the blueprints, but I didn't realize how big it was. It was at least six stories, the first story appearing much larger than the rest, and I could tell it covered a good chunk of a big clearing in the trees. The dirt road became gravel as we neared the building, and I caught sight of a man waiting out front for is, despite it being the middle of the night.

The unnamed driver parked the car and got out, so I took that as my cue to follow, slipping my backpack on.

The man greeted the woman with a nod and a smile, and then turned eyes to me. "You must be Alexei; I'm Mr. Plizetsky. Welcome to Southstar Production, Shipping, and Packaging. You'll be with us until we believe you're ready to reintegrate to your orphanage, or wherever they next plan to send you. Got it?"

"Whatever," I muttered, cringing internally.

I half-expected a hit, but the man just smiled placidly. "We'll go over the rules tomorrow, once you've slept some, but for now, you're to address us as ma'am or sir. Okay?"

"Fine," I said, and I really did intend to leave it at that, but the look in his eye had me adding "sir" too quickly.

"Great," he said, and I could see now, the false kindness in his eyes. "Let's get you set up in a temporary room for tonight, and we'll place you with your roommate tomorrow."

I faltered a little, grateful that neither of them could see me, now that they'd turned.

A roommate was going to make things loads harder. I could only hope they weren't going to pry too much.

I slept restlessly in the cot they'd set out for me, tucked in what I assumed was a temporary housing room for newcomers. I couldn't see any cameras, but that didn't mean there were none, so I was reluctant to change—I just stripped off my jeans and sweater and coat, tucking myself into the blankets and staring at the dark ceiling most of the night.

I was nervous to start.

Eventually, I dozed off, waking to a knock on my door the next morning. Diluted sunlight shafted through the blinds, and I hadn't realized how much I missed having a window where I slept until I was out of the cell in the Bank. I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes when the door opened.

I flinched, the woman from last night filling the doorway. She had another cigarette in her mouth. "Get up and dressed. I'll show you around."

Still heavy with sleep, it was only half an act when I grumbled an affirmative, pulling myself from the warmth of the blanket to the chill of the linoleum and heavy air. The woman scoffed but left. I dressed quickly, pulling on yesterday's sweater and exchanging the thermal underwear for the jeans.

I barely caught myself before I left without my glasses, and I nearly cursed myself for the obvious slip. I'd have to be more careful.

I exited the room with my backpack. When the woman looked up, she said, "Leave it. We'll come back for it later."

I hesitated, reluctant to leave it behind since it had most of my gadgets, but I knew I couldn't very well explain that, so I did as I was told. She must have sensed my hesitance, because she said, "No one's going through it, relax. Your porn stash will be safe."

I tried to hide the way my face burned at her comment, but she smirked, so I wasn't sure how well I did. I didn't believe her, either—I'd bet money as soon as we left someone would come to go through my things and remove any possible weapons or surveillance. I could only hope everything was disguised well enough.

"I'm Helena," she said as we walked down a brightly lit hallway, passing other rooms—I assumed this was the dormitory part of the facility. I wondered if everyone else was still asleep or they were all already up and working. "I'm one of the managers of Southstar. I work on the floor Mondays and Tuesdays with the kids; Wednesdays through Fridays I work in office. If you need something, don't ask me."

I wasn't planning on it.

"There are two schedules: A and B. You'll follow schedule B. That means Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, you'll work on the floor from 7am to 5pm with an hour for lunch at noon. Thursdays you'll work on the floor from 8am to 12pm, eat lunch, then have classes from 1pm to 5pm. Fridays and Saturdays you'll have class from 8am to 5pm, lunch at noon. Schedule A flips work and school, so you rotate. Sundays are free for everyone, so you can use the rec center, piss it away in bed, whatever you want. Once a month we take the kids who've behaved the best to town for the day. Any questions?"

"No," I said, deliberately leaving off the ma'am, trying to slip into Alexei's role.

She paused, turning. "You're missing something."

I stared back silently as she raised an eyebrow.

I couldn't help but feel a little sexist, but it was easier to defy her than it was the man in the driveway, despite the similar look in their eye. I wondered if it was because Fischer was the one who'd been hurting me.

She smirked around her cigarette with a cold chuckle, and said, "Thanks for bringing to my next point, which is punishment."

My heart hammered in my chest, and I stiffened, even as we kept walking.

"Punishments on paper—and in reality—will be extra work, mainly. Small infractions will be an extra couple hours on the floor while everyone else gets to relax, and slightly bigger infractions will see you working on Sundays. Big infractions will put you in isolation for a week." She turned, and there was a glint in her eye. "There are going to be a few that don't go on paper, though, and by the look of your face, you're familiar with a couple."

I bristled, putting as much heat into the glare I sent her way as I could. So, they beat the kids when they misbehaved. I wondered what else was going unspoken.

I couldn't say I was surprised, but I was disappointed. Scared.

My skin crawled with the evil of the world as it sank into my bones, nestling so deep into the marrow I knew I could never escape.

Bear didn't want to watch the video.

He didn't want to see whatever had made Mac's voice sound so upset when they'd sent him the video. He didn't want to see the video behind Mac's vague cautions, their oddly gentle delivery.

He felt Tiger at his back and his father beside him as he gripped the phone.

"…you don't have to watch," Tiger said finally, when it had been a full minute and Bear still hadn't pressed play. "Efrem and I can watch it."

Bear smiled. There was no humor in it.

"It's Alex," he said quietly. "Of course I have to watch it."

They were in Bear's and his father's hotel room. Angelica was with Lion, and had told them in no uncertain terms that they were to go get some much-needed rest. Bear and Tiger had both been reluctant to leave her and Lion—even with S-Unit, there were still several unknown threats. Still, it was no secret that they needed sleep.

Bear had been more than a little surprised to find his father in the lobby of the hospital. Still, even as his dad tentatively recounted the events with Alex—the little fucker calling on his dad even when he was the walking sacrificial lamb—he knew it had been the right decision, because even as his dad was talking, holding his shoulders, he could feel himself unwinding.

Bear felt so truly pathetic.

"Let me…call Fox. He's here too, he'll…probably want to see it," Tiger said, going to grab his phone from his own room. Tiger walked with heavy footsteps, pressed down by some invisible weight.

Bear's stomach was in knots.

"They're hurting him," he said to no one in particular, clutching the phone. The video was loaded on the screen, but they hadn't watched it yet. "They're hurting him and I can't stop it."

His dad was quiet for a long second. He put his arm around Bear's shoulders, and Bear felt himself slump, putting his face in his hands.

"Alex is strong, Henry," his dad said quietly.

"He's just a kid."

"So are you."

"But he's a kid, a—a fucking child," Bear argued into his hands, barely aware of the curse word escaping, but his dad didn't say anything. "I'm so angry, Dad. I'm so mad. I feel—like I did back then."

And he did.

It was eating him alive.

Bear could remember with awful clarity the rage that kept him up at night as a teenager. The rage that put him out on those streets with people he didn't trust. The rage that drew him to that stupid needle and that stupid vial of drugs. The anger that drew him to relapse twice and, in his shame, confess to no one but Mac. The anger that still burned.

And it burned.

"Anger isn't a bad thing, Henry," his father said quietly.

"It feels like it," Bear said through gritted teeth, feeling like a volcano on the verge of bursting. "I feel like I'm going to explode."

It was quiet for a long few seconds. Bear could feel himself teetering between a psychotic break fueled by this warring anger and between the depression fueled by sinking sadness, fear, worry.

Alex was so young, and he was so hurt.

All that came to mind was the time after the football game, when those drunk arseholes had gone after he and Tom. It was a fight amongst football fans—something that was par for the course for all English footie games—and Alex looked so terrified that Bear had to hold his face and tell him it would be okay. That Bear had to sink to the frozen ground with him when his legs gave out, because he thought he was on a battlefield, just from being grabbed.

He did not want to watch this video.

"Then explode," his dad said finally.

Henry paused.

Bear supposed his dad could sense his confusion, because he said, "But do it right. Anger is a tool, Henry. It can be a weapon just like anything else. It's strong, and it keeps you going beyond reason, beyond physical ability. Anger is one of the most powerful things you can experience."

Henry allowed himself to be pulled up, righted on the couch, and his father's eyes bore into his. "It becomes dangerous when, instead of you controlling it, it controls you. Do you understand?"

And Bear did. A little.

He understood that his anger was justified. It had been justified when he was a child, too.

His anger began to control him when he started, instead of standing with his father, standing against him. It controlled him to take that drug on the street. It controlled him to seek it out again, and to seek out the boys who had almost killed him and try to beat them up, and it controlled him when he tried to run off after Elliot's death. It had controlled him most of his life.

Bear knew change didn't happen quickly, but he also knew that this wasn't a small scuffle on the street. It wasn't one tragic near-overdose on the streets of the city, something that happened more often than it should.

It was a power struggle between nations, international terrorists, and a boy. It was a custody battle with worldwide consequences.

If he didn't control his anger here, he could make things so much worse for Alex.

Perhaps that was the reason he was finally able to steady his breathing, steady his heart. Perhaps it was because he knew that if he fucked this up, there would be no turning back.

"That was wise," he muttered, slumping back against the couch.

His dad blinked, then chuckled. "I have my moments."

"I guess," Henry said with a ghost of a smile.

He was so fucking angry with Alex for calling his dad. And so beyond grateful.

Tiger returned with Fox much sooner than Bear wanted.

Fox all but ran into the room, his pale face gaunt. "Video?" He said by way of greeting, muscles coiled tight. "What's this about a video?"

"My friend found it," Bear said, pulling it up, trying to ignore the way his fingers shook. "They said it wasn't good. And—they said it may be—evidence. Against MI6. Which is good, but…"

"…but that means it's probably not good for Alex," Fox finished. Tiger slunk in behind him, coming to stand once again behind Bear.

Bear nodded. "You don't have to watch."

Fox paused, indecision warring on his face. He looked like he was in physical pain. "…I think I do."

Bear knew the feeling.

"Then come on," he said quietly.

Fox did.

Bear hit play.

The first thing he noticed was that the quality was unusually good, but there was no sound. It was a small, concrete room, set up like a standard interrogation room—a single metal table, to metal folding chairs, and a one-way mirror. Alex sat slumped in one of the chairs.

There was a bruise on his cheek, but otherwise, he looked unharmed. More than anything, he just looked pissed off.

"Someone got on his bad side," Fox said quietly, and Bear couldn't help a somber chuckle.

Alex looked downright indignant. That was much better than what Bear had been expecting.

They saw Alex sit upright when someone else walked in—

Fischer. Amell Fischer. Assistant Deputy Head of MI6.

Bear wanted to murder him in cold blood.

He came in with a stack of files and a cup of coffee. He looked like he was saying something, but Bear couldn't read his lips.

"I wish there was sound," his dad said thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, and he watched intently. "It would've been helpful."

"He asked a question of some kind," Fox said, squinting at the screen. "I can't make it all out, but I can read his lips for some of it."

That was surprisingly helpful. Bear angled the phone a little more Fox's way, hoping it would help.

They watched as Fischer sat down, and there was a short exchange. Fox said, hesitant, "It's something about…he's telling Alex to open the file. He said—"

Fox cut himself off, and Bear paused the video, turning. "What? What did he say?"

Fox's face was blank, but his voice held an undertow of blind rage. "He said, 'Would you like the other side of your face to match.'"

So Fischer had been the one to hit him. And was threatening to do so again. Just because of a damn file.

His father's hand tight on his shoulder was the only reason Bear could push the red haze from his vision and resume the video.

"They're…they're talking to fast, I can't get much," Fox said. "Alex said…something about shoes. I don't know why. Fischer said…oh, fuck."

Fox's exclamation was echoed by Tiger, quiet and furious from behind him, as Fischer approached Alex slowly, caging him to his chair.

Bear knew Alex well enough to see the fear behind steely eyes.

"Alex said not to touch him," Fox said, quiet and clinical. "Fischer said something about…fuck, I'm gonna fucking kill this mother fucker, he told—he said Alex didn't get choices anymore. Alex said something about being forced to make those choices. He just…told Alex to open the file again."

Fox paused, but the video played on. "Alex said something about Jones' pepperm—you fucking bastard," he seethed, getting up and sending a kick towards the coffee table, which shuddered. A cup of water was knocked over.

Tiger walked away with a curse, leaning his forehead against the wall as he breathed. Bear's dad didn't do anything.

Bear had flinched hard when the hit struck Alex, even harder when he was slammed onto the table, and as every second passed, he could see his friend fighting to get away, and he could see the panic seeping through. He saw the wild fear in Alex's eyes as he realized he couldn't get away.

He was going to kill him.

He was going to kill him.

Fischer was going to die, and Bear was going to kill him.

Eventually, finally, after just a second and an eternity, Alex opened the file.

Bear let out a shaky, calcified breath that swallowed him as Alex scrambled away, retreating to the corner of the room.

"Is it over," Tiger growled.

"Yes and no," Bear said, pausing the video and putting his face in his hands. "He let go of Alex. But there's still a couple hours of video left."

"I can't watch it," Fox said, sounding as angry as Bear felt. "I'm going to break something. I—"

"You're the only one who can read their lips," Bear's dad said clinically, fixing Fox with a hard gaze. "You need to finish watching it."

Fox opened his mouth to argue, but his face fell before he could. "I…fine. Just…give me a minute."

His dad nodded.

Tiger put a hand on Bear's shoulder. "Alex is the strongest, stubbornest kid we know, Bear," he said, echoing Bear's thoughts. "He's going to be okay. He's going to pull through this."

But Bear didn't need that support. He appreciated it, but he didn't need it.

Right now, he needed Fischer's location, a vehicle, and a gun.

He was going to kill him.

I worked a half shift my first day—it was hard work.

The other kids didn't do much to welcome me or ostracize me—most of them were too absorbed in their own work to even notice my arrival. One of the floor managers showed me to a station that seemed to have been cleared for me. A couple boys—maybe my age, maybe a bit older, I couldn't tell—gave me dirty looks when I got there, but there were always kids like that. I didn't pay it too much attention.

The floor manager was short and demanding. He gave me a couple instructions on the basics of how to operate the machinery, but I was feeling far from confident when he left with a clipped order to get started. I'd been told we weren't allowed to talk to each other on the floor, but I had a lot of questions; I didn't know who I was allowed to ask.

I sat on the provided stool and stared at the packaging equipment—I'd worked at the bike shop, but otherwise, I'd really never been employed. I didn't know what to do. After about twenty minutes of exploring, trying to use different methods to put the parts together and make it fit, I was getting anxious and frustrated, because I was no further along than when I started.

Something hit me in the back of the head, and I started, lurching forward. It was an exaggerated reaction for such a small hit, but it still startled me, especially since I hadn't heard them come up behind me.

"You're not working," the same floor manager said, eyes pinched in tepid anger.

I started, blood curdling, but I kept my face blank. "I don't know what to do."

He looked like he wanted to get angry, but he just breathed a frustrated sigh. "Ask Anya."

He supplemented his order with a nod to the girl sitting next to me. She had short dark hair that hung too far into gray eyes, a slight frame, and a narrow face. I'd noticed her watching me while I tinkered, glancing over once in a while to watch. She was doing everything with practiced ease, so I assumed she'd been here for a while. I'd tried watching her, but the angle made it hard to see everything she did.

The floor manager walked away, and I turned awkwardly to Anya. I may have been tasked with acting the part of a suave, confident troublemaker, but I felt anything but. "Um, could you—show me?" I asked, still in Russian.

She didn't react much, but nodded me over. I peered over her shoulder, mindful of my proximity, and watched as she fluidly assembled the piece of equipment before placing it on the conveyor belt in front of us. It was then carried down the line to the next station, where another set of tables were boxing it up and sending it out.

I asked a couple questions about some specific parts of the processes, and she answered with a meek, quiet voice. I thanked her and went back to my station, just a few feet from hers, and started the first one with little issue.

It was hard work, complicated—something I figured was too complicated for kids—and my fingers were aching a few hours in. Still, once I got the hang of it, it was mindless, mechanical. The floor manager came to check on my work a couple times, but he seemed satisfied, at least. He left me alone after that.

There was a peacefulness about this, almost. It was noisy, with the sound of the machinery and clinking parts, but it was an organized chaos—I could sense a rhythm after a while, a pattern to the noise, and it washed over me. After so many months—years—of unknowns and of surprises, it was almost calming to have something to do that wasn't so demanding. It was hard, but I wasn't running for my life. I wasn't in a battle of wits or of weapons with psychopaths or terrorists.

It was a change of pace, if nothing else.

I jumped when a loud bell intoned from the door, looking around as the sounds of the machinery died down. The conveyor belt came to a slow, screeching halt, and I glanced around to see the kids getting up. Some stretched, long and seemingly needed, and others headed straight for the door, watched carefully by the floor managers and the guards I'd noticed on the catwalks above when I walked in.

I wondered if anyone else had noticed how strange it was to have guards in a shipping company.

"Word of advice," Anya said quietly, startling me as I passed by her. She'd stood and was glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, barely looking at me. She seemed skittish as she said, "Don't let them notice you. If they don't notice you, they don't hurt you, and you don't get in trouble or recruited."

I paused, matching my pace with her as we neared the exits. It was still silent—no one was talking yet but us, so I responded quietly, "What do you mean recruited?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but stiffened, putting her head down and rushing ahead. I looked up just in time to notice one of the older boys—one of the ones I'd caught giving me a dirty look earlier—glancing away from us, a sneer on his face.

I let myself melt into the crowd of kids heading to the cafeteria for dinner, mulling over the little information I'd gathered so far.

I couldn't tell yet if this was going to be just difficult or deadly, but I knew it wouldn't be easy.

I met Helena back at the temporary room to gather my things before being taken to my permanent room.

I knew immediately that someone had gone through my things. I could tell as I zipped up the bag.

Unease coiled in my gut, but if they hadn't dragged me away yet, they must not have found anything of consequence.

"You're roommate's a bit of a special case," Helena said, taking a drag of her ever-present cigarette. "Just ignore him."

I perked up at that. Special cases, in my experience, were usually either helpful or informative, depending on the situation. Maybe having a roommate wouldn't be too detrimental after all.

Helena didn't even bother to knock before entering the room, which sent more than a few chills down my spine.

"Get up, Mouse," she said, and that was all it took for a skinny, small boy to roll out of bed and right onto his feet, going rigid.

I stilled in the doorway, fighting to keep my jaw from dropping.

He was covered in bruises. His face made mine seem like a model's, and from the way they peeked out from beneath his collar, his face wasn't the only thing bruised.

"Yes, ma'am?" He said, and I wondered if his voice was why they called him Mouse. It was small, timid, and afraid.

Rage coiled in my stomach.

"This is Alexei. He's going to be your roommate for the next few months. Neither of you are changing rooms, so I'd suggest you don't make things worse for yourself, yeah?"

The boy—I couldn't find it in myself to call him Mouse—flashed quick eyes to me and then looked down. Small fists curled at his side. "Yes, ma'am."

He was afraid of me.

Sickness nestled into my bones and joints and organs, clinging to me.

"Now that dinner's over, you have free time," Helena said, but I remembered that from the schedule. "Unpack, jerk off, whatever, but don't be late tomorrow. We don't tolerate that here. Plizetsky—" I remembered him as the man who'd met us outside last night, "—will pull you tomorrow to go over the rules and restricted areas, but show up to your station like normal. Tomorrow's Wednesday, so you'll switch off halfway through the day. Got it?"

My face burned once again. I didn't like this woman. I didn't trust my voice, so I nodded. She gave me a cold eye before she left, kicking the door shut behind her.

I looked back to the boy, who was still staring at the ground, trembling.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I said when I couldn't take the silence anymore.

The one thing I couldn't take was this boy fearing me like I feared Fischer and Blunt. That would destroy me.

He didn't believe me, but he nodded, eyes still glued to the floor. "Yes, sir."

Something twisted in my gut. I skirted around him, trying to keep a good distance so he didn't think I was approaching him, and made my way to the unoccupied bed. I could tell he was tracking me in his periphery. "You don't—you don't have to call me sir, either. Just Alexei is fine."

He hesitated, then nodded, and slowly sank back down onto the bed where he'd been laying.

I set my bag down, still nauseous about someone having gone through it, even if it wasn't really mine. I also noticed that there was no lock on the door.

"…what's your name?" I asked finally, if nothing more than to fill the silence.

The boy hesitated. "Everyone calls me Mouse."

I paused. I didn't want to spook him, but I pressed a little, asking, "Why?"

He shrugged, and his eyes shifted rapidly. He played with the hem of a shirt that seemed to swallow him. "Cause I'm small. And quiet, I think. And it sounds kinda like my name."

"What's your name? I don't really want to call you Mouse."

"They're going to be mean to you if you don't," he said sullenly, and as I watched, his shoulders pressed in.

I was looking in a fucking mirror.

I could see the weight. I could see the tension in his body, the fear in his eyes, the resignation in the lines on his face that didn't belong to a child this young, and—and I was sure he was too young to be here. They weren't supposed to accept people younger than fourteen, but I was sure this child wasn't older than twelve, if that. Was that what they meant by special case, or was it something different?

Regardless, that wasn't the issue right now.

I saw too much of myself in him to let things lie.

"I don't really care," I said with what I hoped was enough conviction to be convincing. "Unless you want me to call your Mouse, which I don't think you do, you deserve to at least be called by your name."

The surprise in his eyes, still fixed on the floor, haunted me.

"…Misha," he said quietly.

I nodded.

It was a tiny little victory.

In my head, I knew, I knew, I knew that this was dangerous. That I could not get attached to this child, because I'd have to leave him. He wasn't Jessie, who I could visit as I wanted—or as I wanted in the past, anyway. This wasn't Jonah, who I could play with when he visited.

I couldn't save this child.

That didn't mean I couldn't help him while I could.

"It's nice to meet you, Misha," I said quietly. "I'm Alexei."

As Misha hummed a greeting, his eyes flashed up to meet mine, and a tiny, tiny smile wormed its way onto his bruised face. It gutted me.

"Nice to meet you, Alexei."

A/N: Mouse in Russian is mysh, which is somewhat similar to Misha.

I would die a fiery death in a thousand suns for Misha.

Sorry for the delay! A lot's happened. I hope this update wasn't too terribly sad and that you enjoyed despite the wait! I love and adore and appreciate all of you so much for sticking with me. If you want to, and could, leave a review! They bring me lots of joy.

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