⧗ CHAPTER FOUR ⧗

Tucked into his sling was that torn photo of him and Mia on that Ferris wheel.

Dmitri knew he shouldn't have kept it. Should have thrown it away, flushed it down the toilet while he was washing up. But he didn't. Couldn't. And Dmitri knew he wasn't allowed to have personal possessions in the Red Room. Upon leaving the hospital in London, he'd been given brief, but strict, instructions. Bring no luggage. No items. Nothing but the clothes on his back. He needed nothing else.

Dmitri still had his mother's moleskine notebook, the one that had revealed the secret of project Insight and had spelled her doom. He couldn't throw that away, either, so he put it in a safe deposit box at Kingdom Bank, under a false name. Along with it went his phone, his wallet and passport, and his mother's ring, which had been given to him while he'd been on bedrest. There had been a black SUV waiting for him at the appointed rendezvous at Victoria Park. Dmitri had been doubtful that he wouldn't need his passport, but it turned out they'd take a private helicopter out of the city.

The photo scratched against his skin like a rash that wouldn't go away. But Dmitri was afraid to even reach in and move it, in the dead of night, so quiet and still.

Dmitri had been afraid to take it out at any point where anyone might see, and had been hoping for nightfall for the chance to put the photo somewhere. Only now his one good arm was held up over his head and the other stuck in the sling, entirely useless. The itchiness was driving him crazy. Did they really have to do this every night?

The only bright side to being kept awake was that it gave Dmitri time to think of a solution. He'd seen a good chunk of the Red Room today, plenty of places to choose from. Not many of them good, unfortunately. The only moment of privacy he had was in the bathroom, but hiding the photo in there didn't seem wise with all the humidity.

And when he wasn't thinking of where to hide the photo, Dmitri was thinking about her. About Mia.

She always haunted him at night. Even now, Dmitri kept an eye on all the dark corners of the dormitory, so sure she might appear from the shadows, a pale-eyed ghost. Gun in hand. Blood on her face.

How had it all gone so wrong?

There had been a time where the worst thing that ever happened to Dmitri was not getting the part he wanted, or possibly failing a class. Before that, maybe his parents' divorce, but he was so young then, didn't remember much. Dmitri had been a normal kid. Had thought Mia was also normal. Maybe sorta thought she was the girl of his dreams, not that Dmitri would ever admit that out loud.

That evening at the fair had been, quite possibly, the best time of his life. Their first real not-date, because Mia just invited him as a friend, it was a group thing, even though most of the others brought dates or easily split into pairs. And how could Dmitri forget that Mia won him a prize, that toy spider with the googly eyes. Sitting together atop the Ferris wheel, right after that picture was taken, watching the sunset. Watching her. Curls of blonde hair drifting on the wind, a fiery halo against the setting sun. Turning to him with that Mona Lisa smile, beguiling him. Dmitri never knew what Mia was thinking. Counting the freckles sprinkled across her face, the moment slowed down, a single second stretched into infinity.

For a while, he's almost lulled to sleep. The memory sweet, even if it had been January and the air was cold, Dmitri had felt so warm there, sitting with her. Wanting to reach out, hold her hand. Didn't have the guts.

How they ate ice cream on the pier. Laughed and laughed, and then their hands were touching. And then her face was so close. Dmitri closed his eyes, he could almost smell Mia, that soft honey scent mixed with something acrid. He never knew what it was until now.

Gunpowder.

Like the flash of the muzzle. The bullet ripping through his shoulder. How the smell burned his nose, shimmered in the air, mixing with the thick, sickening coppery smell of blood.

And just like that, the memory soured and curdled, and Dmitri shied away from it. From Mia. From her lips, from her touch, so cold. Why had her skin been so cold?

Dmitri must have drifted off, because he jolted awake again at the memory of the gunshot. A cold sweat soaked his skin, the sky outside the windows just beginning to lighten.

His breath comes in a little too fast, his fingers and toes cold, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. But Mia — or the assassin that had borne her face — did not appear from the shadows to strike. He was alone, awake, surrounded by half a dozen girls. Their identical forms, petite wrists held overhead, sleeping soundly.

The clock on his night table was analog, difficult to reach in the dark. Dmitri suddenly found himself restless, pulling against the handcuff unconsciously. His wrist was starting to chafe a little, and perhaps Dmitri could use a bathroom run to walk off the bad dream — but none of the other girls had risen over the night, none of them had pulled the cord over their headboards. Dmitri didn't want to show weakness by using it on his very first night here.

Sleep remained elusive for the remainder of the night, even as Dmitri tried to close his eyes again and gain a bit of rest. It would be a full day today, and he wanted to be prepared. Not just for his classes, but to deal with the photo as well. But morning came too soon; just as the sun peeked over distant mountains, the door opened, and in walked another sentry. A man, whom Dmitri assumed to be one of the many security officers that patrolled the facility, came through and unlocked their handcuffs one by one. At the same time, the girls all seemed to wake at once, eyes opening within seconds of each other. It was a little eerie, even as one yawned here or there, a few grumbled of sore muscles. Normal. And yet, not.

As soon as his wrist was released, Dmitri's arm dropped and he sighed in relief. His left shoulder complained at the movement, sore from a night immobilized. As he stretched and rolled it out, Dmitri studied the other girls as they began their morning routine, heading off to the bathrooms. Their shoulders didn't seem to bother them at all.

Dmitri tried not to feel jealous as he got up and grabbed his own clothes. This was a new set, provided by the Red Room, with a dozen identical copies in his trunk; black pants, black shoes, white shirt. A similar combination for exercise, as well as a dance leotard, and ballet slippers. The satin, dark and shiny, taunting him from the back corner of the trunk. Dmitri slammed the lid shut before the broken dreams could get to him again.

He couldn't put the photo in there. Not when the trunk had no lock, and he couldn't be sure anyone else wouldn't go snooping in there. The other girls didn't seem to personalize their trunks either, no photos stuck to the inside of the lids, no postcards or ribbons or anything that he'd expect. No personality. It reminded him of a sort of military atmosphere, but even soldiers could have their small personal items tucked away somewhere.

Not here.

Dmitri tried to count his blessings, rather than grieve a future stolen from him. That he got to change in the privacy of a bathroom instead of in front of a bunch of (intimidatingly pretty) girls. Clean clothes that maybe fit him a little too well, even if it lacked individualism. But Dmitri was no stranger to uniforms. Dance troupes were all about coordination and matching outfits. There was even a light array of cosmetics supplied here, behind the bathroom mirror, in case Dmitri ever felt the need to erase the bags that appeared under his green eyes.

He decided to forgo it. Not because he was above using make-up (he'd used it before while performing on stage, it helped with the powerful lights and allowing the audience to identify faces from far away). No, Dmitri just didn't think it was worth the effort. Bags under his eyes, who cared. He was too exhausted to begin with, and it wasn't like he was performing for anyone.

None of the other girls seemed to wear make-up. Not that he could tell, at any rate. Yet Dmitri had only just joined them at the table in the great hall, before Ksenia took one look at him, and said, "Oh, dear. Not enough sleep last night, Dmitri?"

Her tone was cloying, saccharine-sweet. Annoyingly false. Dmitri flashed her a look, then glanced at the other girls, who all looked like they were perfectly rested.

"Rough night," Dmitri mumbled, shrugging his shoulders and turning his gaze to his empty plate. Once more, they were all waiting for the Madame to arrive. "New bed, that's all."

On the other side of the room, the youngest students were dressed in more traditional school uniforms, black dressed and pressed white shirts. Even their hair was perfect. How did a six year old have such perfect hair at seven in the morning?

"Oh, poor thing," Ksenia pouted, twinging Dmitri's nerves. "Baby couldn't sleep in his bed. If the nights are hard, how will he ever last through the days?"

She was baiting him, and Dmitri knew better than to take the bite. Still, he could feel a retort coiling on his tongue, just as Sabina spoke. Scowling, she said, "Oh, leave him alone, Ksenia. It's a lot to take in all at once."

"Well, he better learn quickly," Ksenia sniffed, straightening in her seat just as the doors opened, and the Madame entered. The room fell silent, but Dmitri swore he still heard her mutter under her breath. "Or he won't be learning at all."

Sabina just glanced at Dmitri and shook her head, a gesture to let it go. He smiled back in thanks, grateful someone stood up for him. Then turned his eyes back to the Madame, now dressed in a deep maroon dress suit and another pair of expensive pumps, dark hair coiffed and, as yesterday, wearing a pair of white gloves. It reminded him of those women in old photographs from the Fifties, wearing a pair of dainty gloves to get groceries or driving a car. So fancy for something so mundane.

One she sat, the meal began, and the room filled with sound again. On his other side sat Oksana, who leaned in to whisper, "Don't worry if it's uncomfortable. You'll get used to it."

"What?" Dmitri frowned at her, and Oksana nodded down to his hands. He hadn't noticed how his right was massaging his left, the skin of his wrist turned red and a little raw from the handcuff that night. Dmitri thought he hadn't jostled that much, but clearly he underestimated how much it would hurt. "Oh."

"We have a cream that helps until it scars over," Oksana said, and raised her own left arm. Around her wrist was a dainty white scar, like a bracelet, wrapping all the way around. "And don't worry about what the Madame thinks, it's not bad to have a few scars. Just not any bad ones."

Well, Dmitri wasn't worrying about it before, but he certainly was now. "What's a bad scar?"

"The ugly kind," Sabina answered with a giggle, raising her fork to her mouth. On her wrist, she had a matching scar to Sabina's. "Especially on your face. But it can be anywhere, if it's too… grotesque, it might mean early retirement."

Dmitri unconsciously pressed a hand against his right shoulder, where the fresh scar from the bullet still lingered. He'd glimpsed it in the shower but tended to keep his eyes focused elsewhere, but he already knew it would never go away fully. Would that be enough to disqualify him from the Red Room? Was he doomed before he even began?

Seeing the distress on his face, Oksana put a hand on his arm, adding quickly, "It's okay, I'm sure whatever happened isn't too bad. We've had girls with bad injuries before made it through. And if Madame let you in as you are, then she must think it's fine. She wouldn't waste her time if she thought it was already too much."

"Besides, how bad can it be?" Sabina said with a shrug and a smile. But there was a curiosity there, in her eyes. She wanted to know.

Dmitri hesitated, then said, "Thanks. I just hope it heals fine."

Disappointment flashed across Sabina's face, but she didn't press the matter, directly or indirectly. And Dmitri didn't really want to talk about getting shot. Definitely not in front of Ksenia, who might find wonderful ammunition (pun not intended) with the topic.

Dmitri just tried to focus on breakfast, and not on the photo still scratching his arm.

The first class of the day was History, with an older class. At least, Dmitri thought it was history, the classroom seemed set up for it — maps on the wall, faces of past Russian leaders, framed documents. The girls were about thirteen or fourteen, young enough that Dmitri already felt very stupid to be here, but aside from a few giggles and glances, left him alone. The instructor, Comrade Kozlov, was setting up the projector for a film. Dmitri was almost amused, thinking maybe having history for the first period of the day wouldn't be so difficult after all. He could just sit back and relax.

But it wasn't quite so simple.

Whatever Dmitri was expecting, it wasn't old propaganda films from the 1940's. Comrade Kozlov gave no context for any of this, but Dmitri assumed it must be tied to a lesson about World War II, perhaps. But he never paused the film to explain something, a concept, an idea, a film technique. Nothing.

All the girls watched in complete silence. Here and there, the film flickered, and for a split second Dmitri thought he caught another image. A single frame amid two-dozen a second, a portrait, a face — then gone again. Dmitri wasn't even sure who it was. Or if what he saw was even real. None of the other girls blinked or leaned over or raised their hand. They were just supposed to watch.

Despite his rising discomfort, Dmitri decided not to make a fuss about it. It was just old war films, stuff to rouse the populace to fight for their homeland against German invaders. Men and women alike could take up arms, fight alongside each other, bear the bitter winter their enemies could not.

Again, another flickering image. Words this time, printed letters. Gone again before Dmitri could decipher what it said. In the darkness, the afterimage burned in his retinas.

It was a relief when the projector ran out of film, and the lights flicked on. Dmitri winced, his eyes having gotten used to the darkness, the other girls rubbing their eyes and stretching as if waking from a deep sleep. The film had taken so long that Comrade Kozlov had only a few minutes to remind the class to read from their textbooks, chapters eleven and twelve (Dmitri reminded himself to read the first ten as well), before they were dismissed.

He left feeling discombobulated, confused, baffled by what he'd just experienced. What kind of history class was that? What was he supposed to learn? But all the girls from that class departed in another direction, none of them very interested in speaking with him. And Dmitri had his own class to attend.

Chemistry was not exactly Dmitri's speed. Science never was, and he can't recall the last time he took a chemistry class. Maybe that's why he was with the ten-year-olds, mixing baking soda and vinegar and learning about the periodic table. Despite his lack of experience, this felt like a much more normal class, with regular lab tables and safety equipment.

Dmitri let his young partner do all the hard work of mixing chemicals while he struggled to write down their notes with his left hand. At least she didn't bully him. He even got to feel a little smart when Comrade Zaitseva would ask questions he could actually answer. First bit of normalcy he'd felt in a long time.

Almost normal. Except for the thin pale scar on all the girls' wrists. Every single one of them.

Afterwards, Biology with a Comrade Ilyin, a thin man with thick spectacles with whom Dmitri and a bunch of eight year olds studied the various carcasses of local fauna. A bird, a frog, a squirrel, and a fox. The girls oo'd and ahh'd as the instructor pointed to different organs or stated interesting facts. Dmitri couldn't tear his eyes away from the fox, its red fur bright against the white table, its lifeless golden eyes gazing back into his.

Comrade Ilyin fished the bullet from its haunches, the one that ended its life. Dmitri almost wasn't paying attention as the students were asked what kind of bullet it was, and what weapon was used to kill the creature. All he could do was stare at the bullet, the warped piece of metal, and still feel the hot metal burning through his skin.

Then it was lunch time, although Dmitri lacked a certain appetite after having to look at dead animal corpses for an hour. Afterwards, it was the schedule he already knew — Mandarin (a struggle); etiquette (humiliating); and physical therapy (this time offered a pill for the pain, one that Dmitri had the immense displeasure to dry swallow).

As evening drew in, Dmitri knew he was running out of time. He couldn't hide that photo on his person forever. He was lucky he even managed to hide it through both rounds of physical therapy, where he had to remove the sling. His right shoulder ached even more than last time, distracting Dmitri as he tried to get through dinner. Where the hell could he put the photo?

Maybe he should just burn it. Flush it down the toilet. It wasn't like Dmitri had any intention of ever seeing Mia again. The very idea terrified him. Why would he want to hold onto any memory of her?

And yet, as he stood over the toilet in the bathroom, letting the shower run behind him, Dmitri couldn't follow through. The two halves of the photo in either hand. Mia in one, himself in the other. Both smiling with pure innocence. Cheeks flushed with the cold air, eyes bright and reflecting the light of the Ferris wheel. Dmitri felt slightly woozy, studying those photographs, an intense wave of vertigo that had him swaying slightly.

He wasn't that boy anymore. Mia, a stranger to him. The girl in the picture wasn't the same girl who shot him. She was someone he loved, someone who made him feel welcome in a place that had never felt like home.

Forgoing the shower, Dmitri slipped out of the bathroom, seeing that none of the other girls had finished theirs when he snuck back into the dormitory. Passing the girls' bathroom, he could hear the chatter, the laughing, their comradery. Something he was sorely missing here in the Red Room.

Dmitri stood by his bed, quickly scanning the area. The trunk wasn't an option, but what about his nightstand? There was a drawer he could pull out and, when he traced his fingers along the inside edges, found it had a false bottom. Just a thin piece of smooth board to hide the rough work underneath, the space so narrow it wouldn't fit much. Dmitri slipped the photo pieces within and set the false bottom back in place, the photos so thin that it altered nothing about the setting. No one would notice. No one would stumble across it by accident.

And most important of all, out of sight and out of mind.

The girls returned, all in the midst of conversation as they split off to their beds. Dmitri felt like he had a giant neon sign pointing down at him, announcing his guilt, the rule he broke. No personal items. Nothing from the outside world. But no one looked at him any differently. At least, no different than before.

Only Sabina, who asked, "Is something wrong, Dmitri?"

He jolted slightly, before shaking his head. Tried to sound convincing as he uttered the first thing that popped into his head. "I think the nurse from physical therapy is trying to kill me."

"Oh, Nurse Blatova?" Sabina didn't seem surprised, wincing in sympathy. "I don't envy you. That woman has no bedside manners."

"A few years ago, my arm was broken in a sparring match," Oksana said, leaning in from her side. "She told me that unless the bone is showing, there's no reason to cry. Didn't change the fact it was absolutely shattered." she huffed, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. "I was laid up in the infirmary for a month, had to deal with that the entire time. I hope the Madame replaces her at some point,"

"Don't we all," Sabina said, with a roll of her eyes, and Dmitri chuckled. He was exhausted, and it was difficult to call these girls friends when he didn't even share classes with them (yet); but just having something to commiserate over improved his mood greatly.

Once more, the lights dimmed, and all the girls went for the handcuffs. And once more, Dmitri hesitated.

But only for a moment.

He remembered the scars Oksana showed him. Didn't fail to notice them now on all the girls here, raising their wrists. His was still red from the previous night, and Dmitri didn't look forward to another round of awkward sleeping. But… well, he already got through one night, what was one more?

It was one small sacrifice. In the grand scheme of things, a drop in the bucket.

So he snapped his wrist into the cuffs, and settled into bed. The weight of the photograph, so much heavier than he imagined, finally off his shoulders.

Waiting to be found again. Just in case.