Tiger was holding Lion's hand.

He considered himself a pretty "manly" man. He liked to punch things and cuss. He liked to drink and (respectfully) hit on women and have a good time, and though he didn't begrudge those who did, he didn't have a whole lot of fun with sensitivity or emotion. He liked to keep it very neatly packaged in a corner somewhere. It would be buried with him, unopened.

But now, sitting beside Lion's bedside as the beautiful, amazing sound of a beeping heart monitor clouded his consciousness, he had to make sure it was real.

So he was holding his friend's hand, and he didn't really give a shit about it.

Those few moments of the dead whine, the chaos, and the relief had been more taxing than anything Tiger had ever experienced. It was hours ago by now. Neither Bear nor Tiger had left the room once.

"Do you think he can hear us?" Bear broke the silence a few minutes later.

Tiger flinched, then settled. "…I dunno, Bear," he said truthfully, scratching his eyebrow. He rubbed hand along his jaw and felt just how badly he needed to shave. "I know they say coma patients can hear a lot, but…well, I don't know, mate. I just don't know how he can hear us and not…you know…react."

The nurses had said multiple times that talking to him would help. Tiger had his doubts, but he'd tried it…the overbearing silence of response, though, was too much very soon, and he didn't try much more after that. And he didn't…he didn't get it. He didn't get how one of his best friends could hear him, hear the catch in his voice and the desperation, the pain, and not…wake up.

Tiger never claimed to be the brightest in the bunch, and the medical jargon was lost on him, for the most part. He wasn't the fucking medic.

"…I think he can. At least, I want to believe he can," Bear said, leaning forward in his chair. His shoulders were slumped with the bone-deep exhaustion that accompanies grief. Fear. "Lion. Oi. Lion. You in there, mate?"

"Of course he's in there," Tiger snapped, a little harsher than he should have. But still. Even the notion that he wasn't…

"Yeah, I know he is," Bear murmured, eyes dimming. "I'm just worried."

Tiger sighed. A picture of Alex and Lion, grinning as they laughed at Tiger and Bear fighting over something small, something stupid, flashed behind his eyes. Grief knifed its way through his lungs. "I know. Me too."

Tiger squeezed Lion's hand, just in case he could hear. Could feel, at all.

"Wake up soon, you prat," he added for good measure, whispering just under his breath, ignoring Bear's tired smile from across the bed. "We're lost without you. You know that." He paused. "…Alex needs us, mate."

The silence in the room was broken only by the steady beep of the machine.

Despite that, Tiger would take it over the horrible, steady whine of a flatline any day.

…

Eyes tracked my movements everywhere, now, and it wasn't just because of my spectacle from the cafeteria. Everyone was staring at my bruises, and had been for the past three days.

I was sure it had something to do with my part, too, but I could see how they tracked the dark splotches on my face and arms, the way they glanced at me when my fingers fumbled with mechanics on the line. It might also have been the fact that I continued to sit with Misha every day at meals. It may also have been the fact that none of Ira's group bothered me again.

It may also have been the fact that the rumor on the street is that I murdered Ira.

Kyril, who had in fact survived—had actually been out of the room during the murder, lured by a love note from one of the girls his age (a note said girl has no recollection of writing or delivering)—had said that he doesn't know what happened. He's been shaken and quiet.

I did nothing to dissuade the rumors. I wasn't sure if they'd help me or hurt me yet. I knew that Misha had told his father that he was with me nearly the entire night, during which the murder would have taken place, so the adults knew that it probably wasn't me.

That meant nothing for the imaginations of the others. They were running absolutely wild.

That first day after the murder, after the beating, had been hellish. Every movement had been fire and gasoline, burn and roar in every bone, and to work in that condition had been absolutely miserable. The concussion that I was absolutely sure that I had wasn't taken into account when the floor managers would whack my head from behind when I slipped up, which was quite often given my numb limbs and broken arm, and a headache had been pressing behind my eyes for days now.

They hadn't given a shit about my broken arm when I'd finally worked up the nerve to visit the all-but-empty infirmary during lunch. I was given two acetaminophen tablets and an icepack and told to go back to work.

I had been able to send word to MI6 about one half of the bomb being delivered ahead of schedule and about my injuries via the notebook they'd given me. I used the stylus to scratch an almost-illegible message with my left hand, since my right arm wasn't functioning correctly, and heard back two hours later.

Do not report unnecessarily.

I'd snorted through my aching, bruised nose. I wondered who'd written that.

The past few days, though, had been…not peaceful. Never peaceful, not in this hellhole with this poignant, serrated fear. But they'd been quiet. I went to work, to class, and no one bothered me. I walked with Misha, talked to him at night—heard him laugh for the first time, a tiny giggle that healed something broken inside of me—and I kept track of the adults watching me. I knew they'd been keeping an extra eye on me and the other girl—Esfir?—and the employee, but I was surprised just how many of them were tracking me.

It made recon that much harder.

Still, three days had reduced the overwhelming pain to a constant ache, the jackhammer in my skull to a gentler ebb and flow of pressure. Misha helped me bandage my arm with a make-shift brace. I grit my teeth when I thought of how, of why, a twelve-year-old boy knew how to do that.

I knew from the conversation I'd overheard that the bomb—half of it—was somewhere in the compound by now. I knew I'd be kept away from the project, but I kept a lookout for suspicious parts or packages on the factory floor just in case. I'd seen nothing out of the ordinary so far.

My first clue came on the third night, when Misha and I were talking.

He'd opened up quite a lot. I had a feeling no one had ever really…stood up for him before, and he was capitalizing on the presence of someone who gave a shit.

It was nice for me, too, to have a friend in this cold place.

The clue itself came early in the conversation—I learned that Misha had, in fact, been placed on the project. He was the youngest and, arguably, with who his father was, the easiest to manipulate. The easiest to trust, to an extent.

I filed the information away for later, to ask questions. I didn't want to pressure him or make him suspicious (though Misha was so trusting I wondered if he'd even bat an eye at the things I wanted to ask). Still, I wouldn't be surprised if Plizetsky was asking Misha questions about me, and about what I asked, so I thought it best to err on the side of caution. Instead, I asked him about his classes, listening easily to his ensuing monologue.

"…and then we talked about stars! Stars, Alexei. I think that may be my favorite things we've learned about so far. And planets too!"

I laughed quietly from across the room, staring up at the concrete ceiling and wondering if I may feel a little better looking at a starry sky, instead. Misha had been talking about his science lesson from this morning for twenty minutes now—I supposed our next chapter was in astronomy.

Something I'd learned about the schooling here was that the curriculum was, in a word, lacking. It felt more like the teachers (who doubled as floor managers and didn't really care about either job) taught whatever they felt like from the old, disintegrating books in the back of the classroom. I did my best to keep up, but I hadn't had to read and write in Russian in a long time, and I could only stumble along. I hoped they chalked it up to stupidity rather than Russian being my second language.

Still, Misha loved science. He told me all about it every night. Despite that, I hadn't heard him talk so animatedly about any lessons as much as this one. "Yeah?" I responded. "What did you learn?"

"Mm, we learned about this giant star named Betelgeuse, which is such a weird name. That's the only reason I remember that. Did you know that it's bigger than the Sun? And did you know that the sun is actually a star? And that some of the stars we see aren't stars, but are actually big planets?"

"Whoa, that's pretty cool," I said indulgently, breathing deeply as fatigue tugged at my bones. "Then how do we see the sun during the day, huh?" I knew, of course. I wasn't that far behind in schooling. But something about the joy in his voice was soothing. I didn't want it to stop.

"Cause it's just so bright," he said, voice drifting to me from across the room. He was sitting up in his bed, reading a book he'd snagged from the classroom. I glanced his way and saw a crude constellation on the cover, Russian characters at the bottom.

"Hm," I acknowledged, my eyes sliding closed. I felt sleep tugging at me, and I almost gave in.

A small voice from across the room cut through the budding dream. "My mom used to read me a book about planets. But I pretended they were stars."

My eyes slid open, and I was much more awake than I thought. "Yeah?" He'd never mentioned his mother. I'd seen a tiny Polaroid photo taped to the corner in his bedframe, hidden when the bed is made, of him—much smaller, unbruised, and innocent—and a woman who looked just like him. I never asked. He never asked about my photos, either.

"Yeah. It was called The Little Prince. Do you know it?"

A bittersweet smile curled at my lips. "Yeah. My—friend, she used to read it with me." It would be too suspicious for a poor Russian orphan to have a housekeeper. And Jack was so much more than that, anyway.

She'd loved that book.

"We read it all the time. We used to look at the stars and she told me I was the prince," Misha said quietly, voice becoming thick. "I don't know about that anymore, but…I like to think one day I'll be able to go to all the stars like him. And get rid of the baobab trees and meet a nice pilot and have an adventure. I think that would be so cool."

I didn't know if he knew that the unfortunate little prince passed away at the end. I refused to envision that ending for Misha, and said, "You'd be the best little prince, Misha. I'm sure you'll have all sorts of adventures one day." I paused. Danger ate at my senses, the knowledge that I would have to leave this child behind, and I couldn't be his pilot—I couldn't take him with me, or remain by his side until the end. But…I wanted to know. "…if you couldn't go to the stars…where else would you want to go?"

I heard Misha shrug. Nothing more than a soft rustle of fabric in the silence. "I…don't know. My mom was from around Moscow, but I've never been." He paused, and I let the silence linger, waiting for him to continue. "I think, just…I'd like to go…anywhere but here."

My heart ached, because I felt just the same.

"…one day, Misha," I said, planting conviction in my voice despite the way my brain screamed that I was lying to him. That I was giving a little boy false hope that he could be a prince among the stars one day. "One day. I'm sure you'll…get to see all the places you want."

"…you think?" He asked quietly. "That's what my mom said."

I smiled. "Well, moms are usually right."

He may have nodded. He may have not reacted at all. "I miss her."

I paused. "Yeah. I miss my family too."

It was quiet for several minutes, and I felt sleep tugging at me again, my body still trying to shut down to heal.

"I wonder who my pilot will be," Misha whispered into the darkness.

I knew what he was waiting for. I could hear the hope in his voice.

Instead of answering with an empty promise, I stared at the starless, concrete sky and said, "I'm sure you'll meet them soon."

After a moment, a disappointed hum interrupted my thoughts, and I heard him roll over.

Despite the exhaustion, it took me a long, long time to fall asleep that night.

…

The second clue came the next day, right from Ivan Plizetsky himself.

The pain in my arm was getting worse—probably because it needed to be properly casted and I needed to be on something stronger than daily acetaminophen—but a sling was the best I could do for right now. I was on my way to the infirmary for my daily dose of placebo pills (which I was convinced was what they were) when I heard voices coming from down the hall to my right.

I'd never been down that hallway—I was too nervous to wander during the day, when I was supposed to be working or in class—but from my brief perusal of the blueprints MI6 had given me, and the file on Plizetsky I had (albeit, thin as it was) I thought his private apartment was down that way.

I slowed to a stop as the voices got clearer, and I heard Misha's voice. Then Plizetsky's.

"—spending all your fucking time in the classrooms when you should be in the annex working, and now you don't have any useful information, either? What do I keep you for?" Plizetsky snarled, low and furious. The hairs on my arms bristled, and I started in that direction, fear bubbling low in my stomach.

"Dad, I don't…I don't know what you mean," Misha said, voice small. The door must be ajar—that was the only way I'd be able to hear them so clearly. I heard the fear in his voice. My body moved faster without my permission, moving towards the sound. "Why…Alexei isn't, he isn't a…a spy?"

I paused, but it was only for the smallest of seconds. I recognized the fear in his voice. Had felt it course through me when Fischer towered over me.

"You room with him, Misha. You must have seen something," Plizetsky growled. His voice was different from the self-assured man I'd met a week ago—it was thin and strung out, verging on desperate. "Any odd questions he asked you about the Babochka project, any odd possessions…anything, Misha!"

"I don't know, I really don't know," Misha said quietly, voice wobbling. I stopped short outside the door, and could see shadows through the crack. "He's just—just a normal person, I don't—"

"You're fucking useless," Plizetsky growled, and I heard skin on skin contact, and a tiny, muted whimper.

That was more than enough for me.

I only had time to see Plizetsky's hand rise for another blow, face twisted in ugly, ugly hate, hate that had absolutely no place on the face of a father, and Misha's cowering body before I slid between them.

The hit was heavy and loud, and hit the shoulder of my good arm. I grimaced, stumbled, but didn't move. It would've hit Misha's face, already battered. It would've rung his head like a bell.

It was like forcing myself to stare down the devil as I raised my eyes to meet Plizetsky's, at first wide in surprise, and then absolutely black in fury.

"You," he snarled, taking a step towards me, "are quickly becoming much more trouble than you're worth."

I stumbled back a step, bumping into Misha, retreating from the fury in his eyes, but I didn't move. I licked my lips, unable to back down. This was a defining moment of my cover—I couldn't afford to mess up here. I felt Misha tremble against my back, one hand twisted tight in the fabric of my shirt.

I took a breath. "I don't know what you suspect of me," I said carefully, "but…please don't…don't take it out on Misha. He's your son."

I had no illusion that I could reason with this man. No illusion that I could instill within him love for a son he obviously didn't want and couldn't care less about, but…it might be what an orphan would say. It would be what an orphan would say. And…and I had to say it. If nothing else than to get it out of my chest, where it sat, toxic and violently indignant.

"You're supposed to protect him, not hurt him," I spat, tucking Misha behind me with my good arm.

The slap was heavy and sharp, and it made my still-concussed head swim. "Don't you fucking tell me how to treat my son," he yelled, fisting a hand in the collar of my shirt and dragging me to the door. I dragged Misha with me, sorry for the way he stumbled, but unwilling to leave him here. "If I see you off rotation one more time, Aslanov. If I see you step one more fucking toe out of line, I won't stop at a beating."

He more or less threw us into the hallway. I only kept my footing by slamming hard into the hallway wall, catching my breath, flinching hard when the door slammed.

Terror was sharp and hot in my blood, but I put a shaking hand on Misha's head, tilting it back. "You okay?"

Tears swam in his eyes. "You shouldn't have done that." His voice was a cold, dead thing.

I shrugged, trying to muster a smile, but we both knew it fell flat. We shared this fear far too intimately to fool the other. "I do a lot of things I'm not supposed to."

He didn't even try to smile.

We walked away in silence. I kept an arm around his shoulders.

I had gone for Misha, and that was reason enough, but now I had a general location.

The annex, about a quarter of a mile removed from the actual compound—the perfect place for a side project, with even more privacy and a more remote location for exchanges and repackaging. The ideal setup.

Now I just had to figure out how to get there without getting caught.

…

The third and final clue, and my way to the annex, came from the devil who'd murdered Ira Dobrev.

Or, more accurately, a demon sent by the devil.

It was two days later, after I'd stepped between Plizetsky and Misha, and I'd been doing my best to be the absolute model pupil. I stayed quiet during lessons, did my work as quickly and as well as I could, stayed otherwise in my room. I didn't talk back, I didn't incite trouble, and I said ma'am and sir. I followed every rule except the one about not sitting with Misha.

Plizetsky had made it very clear that he wasn't above killing me, and I didn't want to test it.

He'd also assigned me a chaperone of sorts. Never the same person, but I wasn't allowed to go anywhere alone, which made recon very difficult—not that I was doing much of it anyway. I was too afraid to even ask Misha questions, for fear Plizetsky would take it out on him.

It was during lunchtime. I was supposed to go to the infirmity for my daily dose of pain medication. One of the floor managers was supposed to walk me there, but there had been a skirmish earlier between a few of the other kids, and several of them were dealing with the aftermath of that. Helena barked something at a line cook, and they shrugged off their apron and approached me.

"Go," he grunted, nodding in the direction of the infirmary.

I decided to nod silently. I didn't know him, and I didn't know how he'd react to the attitude Alexei was supposed to have.

We walked in silence for a couple minutes before, without warning, the line cook clapped a hand over my mouth and dragged me into a dark storage closet.

My body reacted before my brain did, and I elbowed behind me, catching an oomph as the door closed, locking us in darkness. The oppressive darkness and the man I struggled with made the claustrophobic space seem that much smaller, and panic drove my movements as I surged to the door, my heart beating out of my chest.

Was this on Plizetsky's orders? Were they cutting their losses and getting rid of me? Would they chalk my death up to an accident like Ira's, and put my name on a dusty plaque somewhere, and that would be all that was left of me? Or would I just disappear? What would the others think—Wolf, and Lion, and Fox, and—would they keep looking for me, only for my body to decompose at the bottom of a frozen lake somewhere?

The spiral of those thoughts propelled my movements that much more, and I fought. The man snarled, "Stop, I'm not going to—would you fucking stop, I'm not going to do anything."

He punctuated the statement by turning me around and slamming my back against the wall hard enough to knock a bottle of cleaning solution off the counter, reaching up to tug the switch attached to the bare lightbulb, bathing the space in jaundiced light. Quickly, he got a hold of my jacket and pinned me to the wall, nothing but harsh breaths of fear leaving me as I froze.

The movements I'd seen, the way I was pinned, the cold look in his eyes—they were far too clean, far too sophisticated, for a line cook in rural Russia.

The man smirked as he saw the understanding in my eyes. "For a second I wondered if your intelligence had been overestimated."

I licked my lips, heart still hammering, knowing that despite his words, I was very much helpless right now. He had me pinned in such a way that all of my movements were limited, and I had very few options to fight back. "…who sent you?"

The man looked disappointed. "And now I'm continuing to wonder. Think carefully, boy."

I grimaced, body still taut with the need to fight, to escape from where he had me pinned, but knowing that fighting probably wouldn't help me in this situation. This was a trained assassin—barring his demeanor, the way he moved with predatory grace, the quick and precise movements…it was Yassen all over. An assassin with little regard for life.

I'd never been able to beat Yassen before. I couldn't beat this man, either.

I knew he had to be from SCORPIA, from the scorpion in Ira's room…but I would've thought that they'd be trying to hinder me, or take me.

But that was the same thing I'd thought about Matthias, as well, and he'd just wanted to talk. Talk and threaten.

To use.

My eyes narrowed.

"Matthias," I said carefully.

The man grinned, shark's teeth and satisfied eyes. "Good boy." He patted my cheek once before releasing me, and I tried to melt into the wall to put as much space between us as I could. My arm throbbed. "He sent me to help you out. He's rooting for you."

"You killed Ira," I confirmed, hate blazing a trail down my spine, writhing in my soul. "He was just a kid—"

"The correct words are thank you, actually," he said, producing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it up, taking a long drag before he answered. The flickering lighter in the already dim room cast long shadows that crawled into my nightmares. I wanted out of this room. "He was inhibiting your progress. Matthias is quite taken with you—he's very intrigued, I should say. Which is where I come in."

He leaned against the wall, and I let myself relax a fraction, if for no other reason than my tense limbs still ached something awful. I didn't respond—I had nothing to say.

"I thought you were supposed to be curious," he muttered. "Do you know where your package is being kept?"

Slowly, I nodded. I wasn't surprised that he knew about my purpose here.

"Good. Meet me tomorrow night, 2am. I'm going to help you sneak over there."

I startled, immediately suspicious. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm on Matthias' orders. It's not a SCORPIA weapon, so we don't give a shit about it. Matthias is just enjoying watching you work."

I felt phantom hands crawling around on my body at the thought of being watched by that man with so much fixation. My throat closed in fear before I managed, "Where should I meet you?"

I had to take what I could get.

He grinned. "That's the spirit, boyo."

…

That night, one night before my expedition to the annex, Misha and I lay awake, talking about our dreams.

Misha wanted to be a geologist. I was surprised by how intelligent he really was—that wasn't to say that I thought he was stupid, but I was sure his schooling had been less than adequate. Despite that, he was constantly throwing out facts, constantly reading worn, tattered books from the classrooms, and he seemed to comprehend a lot more about advanced sciences than I did at his age. I'd never been stupid, and I always had a good work ethic, but I had to work pretty hard for the grades I got. Misha seemed to absorb things like a sponge.

He regaled me for a long time about different rocks, sediment types, reservoirs…terms I hadn't heard since earlier in primary school, things I had to struggle to remember. I didn't have to fake my surprise or pretend to be impressed—Misha was very, very intelligent.

"You'll be a great geologist," I said seriously, believing it myself. "Where do you want to study?"

"Mm, everywhere," he said decisively, and I laughed. "Seriously, everywhere! There are so many different places. I think it would be cool to study a desert, though. All dry and stuff. I wonder what you could find there."

"I'm sure you'll find a bunch of stuff," I said sincerely.

A pause. I leaned back against the wall from where I was sitting on the bed, wondering what time it was. I didn't have a clock. I wondered if the clouds were covering our stars, or if Misha and I could see them, if we snuck outside. I wouldn't risk it, but I wondered.

"What do you want to be, Alexei?"

Ah. What a heavy, heavy question.

"…I don't know," I said honestly. The question always made me uncomfortable. There wasn't much I could do. I didn't know if I'd survive tomorrow, let alone be able to continue schooling down the line. It just seemed…wasteful, to think about. But Misha was waiting.

"…I used to want to be a football player," I admitted. "I loved the sport, and I was good at it. I was convinced I was going to join a major league and become a professional, but…I don't think I'll be able to do that now."

Misha, face drawn tight in curiosity, paused again. "Then what else do you want to do?"

I smiled. I should've known Misha wouldn't be deterred so easily. "…I really don't know, Misha. I just…" And for a moment, I allowed Alex to overtake Alexei, and I let my shoulders sag. I smiled, and I knew it was sad. "I want to be…okay. Just…have a place to call home with people who love me."

Memories pounded me like waves on the shore, sweeping in a tide of recollection, and I remembered. I remembered nights on a couch surrounded by family, days lounging in a kitchen with laughter around me. I saw visages in the shadows, people I loved that are lost to me now, people I loved that may as well be gone. I saw those things, I remembered them, and I realized I would give almost anything to be back there. Anything, anything, anything.

Elliot's face flashed before my eyes, and I choked down the screams of grief trapped in my chest. I swallowed them, blinked, and looked at Misha.

Misha's eyes had stayed wide, locked on mine, and they misted. "I want that, too."

I nodded. "You'll get it. I promise."

As I said it, I hated myself, because I knew it probably wasn't true.

The joy in his eyes, the relief in his smile, made the bitterness of that lie worth it.

…

Bostyov, the line cook who'd cornered me the day before, the one that Plizetsky wrote off, smuggled me to the annex in a refrigerated cart under the guise of transferring nearly-spoiled produce to the industrial freezer.

It was freezing, and my teeth were chattering so badly I was sure I'd wake the entire compound, but I made it in one piece. Bostyov helped me out of the cart, and I flinched at his touch, then backed away.

He scoffed. "If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead."

I had no doubt that was true, so I didn't say anything. He left a few minutes later, telling me he'd return to collect me in thirty minutes. "If you're not here, I'm leaving you."

I didn't doubt that.

I didn't have detailed blueprints for the annex, but I knew that there weren't as many cameras here, because the kids usually weren't allowed in the building—this project was a special case. I'd reviewed them before coming over, sneaking out of my room when I was sure Misha was asleep, but I knew it was going to be difficult to find my way around.

I wandered for a few minutes, dodging cameras and sticking to blind spots as much as I could, before I found the factory floor.

It was a smaller version of the main floor we had in the main compound, but the layout was similar, if not shrunken. I made my way to the back, keeping an eye out for anyone, unease and fear prickling at the back of my neck.

The door to the shipping room, where many of the main packages were held, was locked, but it was easy enough to pick. There was no deadbolt, just a key; they probably didn't think anyone was going to come looking for it. I used a pin I kept in trousers and winced at the loud click echoing in the steel room, but when nothing more was heard, I carefully pushed the door open.

I'd found half of the bomb, at least.

It was partially disassembled, parts carefully placed away from the others for fear that something would ignite, but I could tell from the size and shape of the monstrosity on the large pallet that it was capable of killing hundreds, if not thousands, in a single strike.

My gut turned soft as I thought of the destruction, and I swallowed. I had to get this news to MI6.

I turned to go, but something caught my eye—in the back, unlike on the floor, there was nestled a small office, the blinds half-closed, a motion-sensitive light in the corner just barely illuminating the floor.

I wondered if it had the schedule for the rest of the bomb.

I didn't know when, or if, I'd be able to come here again—I knew I couldn't let this chance slip by.

I swallowed, taking a shuddering breath, and crept carefully to the office. It was unlocked.

Hesitantly, I left the lights off, picking my way carefully around the room. In the dim light I could barely make out a bare glass table, a worn couch and armchair, a grimy coffeepot in the corner, and a shabby desk in the back covered in papers.

I hustled to the desk, doing what I could to comb through the papers without disturbing anything. I was looking for something, anything, about bombs, explosives, anything about Project Babochka, but the Russian characters were hard to read in the darkness, and I struggled through their pronunciation. My nerves were on fire the longer I stayed, and I knew that my time to meet Bostyov had to be getting close.

After another few minutes, filing carefully through the pages on the desk and finally turning to a small filing cabinet I'd missed in the corner, I found it.

It was in a manila envelope, looking fresher and nicer than the other project files, and had Babochka stamped across the front in big letters.

Project Butterfly.

With desperate fingers, I opened the file and crept to the low light so I could try to read it easier. I scanned the contents, flipping through pages and pages of schematics before I finally found the document with information on the transfer.

They were sloppy enough, or I wasn't lucky enough, for them to leave the buyer's name on the document in an unlocked room, but they had the timeline.

Three days.

The other half of the bomb would be here in three days.

Just three more fucking days in this hellhole, and I could leave. I could leave.

The thought almost brought tears to my eyes.

I hurriedly put everything back in order, standing to replace the file and get the hell out, when the lights flipped on.

I jerked my head towards the door, coming face to face with Ivan Plizetsky.

Something primal and hot in my stomach coiled and bubbled over the surface, and I froze.

"You," he snarled, and I would have preferred Fischer in the moment. Very few times in my horrid and tragic history had I felt fear like this. "I fucking knew it was you."

He advanced on me, and I knew very quickly that I wasn't going to win in a fight. I couldn't talk my way out of this—I'd been caught red-handed, and there was no explaining this way. At least, nothing that I could think of off the top of my head. My only chance was to get around him and get out, signal for exfil, and hope I could survive the elements in the surrounding forest until they got here.

I skirted my way around the table between us, ducking behind the beige sofa and towards the door, adrenaline and fear sharpening my movements, but he was too fast. Had I been at full strength, I may have made it, but I was still in pain from the beating. My hand just grazed the doorknob as he grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked me back.

I choked as the fabric snatched tight around my throat, and Plizetsky twisted it tight as he fisted his other hand in the fabric of my sleeve, snarling in my ear, "Fucking rat. I fucking knew it."

I wheezed thinly against the fabric, clawing at it with my good hand in panic before I remembered my training. Forcing myself to think, to ignore the panic and think logically and remember everything that Ian and my trainers had taught me, I acted.

I stomped hard, as hard as I could, on his instep, and listened to him howl. I gasped desperately as his hand loosened on my collar, stars winking in and out in my vision as I coughed, lunging for the door. I wrenched it open, glancing behind me to see Plizetsky advancing—

-and ran straight into Helena, who clocked me across the face so hard I blacked out for a moment.

I came to on the ground, Plizetsky standing with a foot on my chest, and acted before I was fully conscious. I raked my nails across the exposed skin of his ankle, clawing hard and deep, and twisted hard enough to send him sprawling. I rolled to my knees, ignoring the wavering of my vision, and barely ducked out of the way when Helena kicked out at my head.

I managed to stumble to my feet out of sheer luck, but it didn't last long.

With the roar of a madman, Plizetsky grabbed me by the collar and the front of my shirt, and I could do absolutely nothing as he lifted me and slammed me down so hard I fell through the table as the glass shattered.

My vision went white with agony, a hundred tiny bursts of pain spasming in my back as glass shards cut through my shirt, blood leaking from the cuts and from the back of my head where it had struck the metal frame.

I lay still in the destruction, my vision graying at the edges as Plizetsky and Helena came to stand over me, all of us breathing heavily. I took a shuddering breath as black crept in, blinking sluggishly as I tried to will my body to move.

I couldn't.

I couldn't.

I blinked at the starless ceiling, and I heard voices, ugly things filled with hate, then the sharp whine of concussed silence, then nothing at all. My hearing faded, my vision clouded.

As pain washed through me, I thought of home, and how I would probably never see it again.

Riding the darkness into unconsciousness, praying for rescue that I knew wouldn't come, my eyes slipped closed.

…

2,979 miles away, Daniel Walker's eyes cracked opened.

A/N: Hehe. Y'all I am so codependent on Lion it isn't even funny. You really think my mental health could handle writing him off?

Had you in the first half though didn't I lol

Thank you all so much for your continued love and support! As always, a special thanks for my wonderful reviewers: guest, guest, guest, storyspinner16, Random Barefoot Stranger, ActualScorpion, Jess, Asilrettor, Guest, Eva Haller, ovkx, Guest, PuffandProud, Lira, and Finnix!

Lira: I'M SORRY DON'T SCREAM

Finnix: I never said who the happy ending would be for lol. I know I'm awful. And thank you! I love my boys lol. Omg that is so kind thank you

Lira: I'm sorry! Omg thank you so much, I love it when people share their fav lines 333

Guest (This is so good!): Thank you! Sorry for the wait! OMG WHAT FICS HAVE YOU WRITTEN I WANNA READ THEM! Lol everything is hinging on that tag ahhahaha

Ovkx: Thank you for the review!

Guest (I couldn't believe…): Aww thank you! You too!

Jess: Same

Guest (think you could update soon?): Here you are!

Guest (please update!): Here you go!

Guest (Thank you for a great and…): Don't worry, I just get busy! I'll definitely finish it!

Again, thank you all much for sticking with me. I couldn't do this without you.