The guards escorted me to the doctor's private office ...
The tall white door swung open and I froze.
Everything inside was white—walls, furniture, desk.
Even the swivel chair and the parquet floor were snow-colored.
Apparently the lunatic had an obsession with white.
The doctor stood with his back to me, half-leaning on the desk.
I knew I'd blundered when I told Ashur about being "sold to Russia," but I'd had no choice. I had to pretend that revelation—not the secret trigger code—had made him talk. If the doctor suspected otherwise, things would get ugly fast.
So I'd purposely broken protocol, letting them summon me to his court.
Nothing was beyond this man; he could spill my blood right here.
I clasped my hands, brow knotted, and waited.
At last he turned. I couldn't read his face—neither pleased nor angry.
His skin looked pallid, the fresh stubble sharpening his features.
His hair was damp, as though he'd splashed water on himself.
He walked toward me, slow.
I swallowed.
How many heads had he claimed? Would mine be next?
This was the man who'd broken Steven and forced me to kill him; my death would be effortless for him.
I clenched my teeth, ready: if he struck, I'd hit the healing stitches beneath his ribs, twist his arm, kick the guard on my right, grab the weapon ...
"Bravo."
I flinched. He was right in front of me, studying my eyes. Then his lips stretched and he laughed—like a devil set loose on earth.
The cold room echoed with that laugh.
My heartbeat settled—he wasn't here to kill me.
Still grinning, he leaned close, eyes shining:
"You told Ashur we planned to ship him to Russia—just to make him talk, hm?"
As if musing aloud, he whispered, awestruck,
"First you rattled him with the tattoo story... then the Russia sale, so he thought you were on his side. And when I attacked you, that only pushed him further. The bastard loves playing with people."
He spun to me, still stunned.
I stood motionless; apparently my gamble had worked.
He assumed Russia + tattoo had opened Ashur's mouth—never imagining a coded phrase lay behind it.
I fought a smirk. He raked a hand through his hair, muttering:
"Nice work."
I dipped my head, voice steady.
"Apologies for breaking protocol, sir. I guessed the Russia angle would earn his trust—and since he knows a sale to Russia kills any escape chance, he spoke."
He weighed me, triumph glinting in his eyes.
Hands in trouser pockets, he said:
"Doesn't matter now... you proved yourself."
He strode to the floor-to-ceiling windows. I knew the panes were bullet-proof; otherwise he'd never stand so close.
Gazing at the night beyond, he went on:
"I'm naming you acting deputy admin. I'll tell Patrick to issue your new card.
From now on your clearance—and responsibilities—go up."
I blinked, answered in the prescribed tone:
"Thank you for the confidence, sir."
My eyes dropped to the immaculate floor, swallowing a feral grin.
"After all, someone has to replace that treacherous spy," he added, voice cool and barbed. "Congratulations."
The words fell like a hammer on my heart.
My fists cramped; my teeth ground.
I felt the burn of tears—but forced them down.
"Much obliged, sir," I murmured.
He had no idea. By promoting me, he'd sealed his fate.