Three days had passed...
Admin Patrick crossed my path less and less.
Ever since I'd traded the yellow jumpsuit for a white admin suit with its silver insignia, there was a buried rage in his eyes that secretly delighted me.
And this was only the beginning—he'd suffer much more.
My quarters had changed, too; I now slept in the admins' wing.
A larger room, with an actual window.
I slept longer, wandered the floors under the pretext of "inspections."
In truth I was mapping every exit, every camera, every shift change—so that, when the moment came, I'd know the way out of this hell.
I picked up the hot, rectangular meal-tray and carried it to an empty table, sitting alone.
Peeling off the lid, I scanned the hall while snapping the plastic fork free.
Everyone ate in silence, heads bowed like prisoners.
I cut a piece of salmon and lifted it.
My stomach twisted—lately I skipped meals, spending every spare minute scouting—and only remembered to eat when the hunger became pain.
Reaching for the paper cup, my breath caught.
Steven had once slipped a hidden note under a cup just like this...
My gaze drifted to a young admin posted by the entrance; a lump rose in my throat.
He stood exactly where Steven used to stand, sneaking those quick blue glances at me.
Steven had always been watching out for me.
I stabbed at the lettuce, crammed a mouthful in, then shoveled more fish on top—trying to swallow the knot in my chest.
My eyes burned; my ears felt hot.
I choked on the bite—then, suddenly, the mess hall blurred and I tumbled back into the past...
***
Cold-camp memory
"Viuna, why are you inhaling your food like that, girl?"
I crouched on my bunk, a blackened mess-tin between my boots, shoveling spoonfuls of bean stew into my mouth.
"None of your business!" I growled, cheeks bulging.
Soldiers tramped between the iron beds of the tent.
It was near midnight—fresh off guard duty, I hadn't eaten all day. My fingers were numb, nose running, steam puffing from every chew.
Across from me, Steven leaned against a bunk post, rifle across his lap.
"You're still a lady, you know," he teased. "French girls eat slowly, even flirt with their food."
I swallowed with effort, glared at him, words slurred around the stew:
"French girls aren't stuck in a desert camp in winter, eating canned beans with a pack of apes like you!"
He laughed, tipping his head back in the weak yellow bulb that made his blond hair shine—why did he have to look good even here?
I snapped a boot into his shin. "Stuff it!"
He yelped, still laughing. I raised my rifle warningly; he knew one more word and I'd put a round through his leg.
Catching his breath, he straightened.
Steam curled from our mouths; every time the door-flap opened, a knife of ice sliced through the tent.
I huddled deeper, lifted another spoonful. "Warm yours up and eat. We have to stay ready. If they spring another midnight drill, don't whine to me— I'll shoot you myself."
His smile softened, blue eyes locking on mine, voice suddenly quiet:
"If I get really hungry, I'll just eat you," he murmured.
I cocked the rifle; he burst out laughing.
The sound of that laugh still echoed in my skull...
and I was the one who had silenced it forever.
I had closed those bright blue eyes with my own bullet.
I was supposed to protect him.
I should have—
" Why aren't you eating, Admin Aaa-lis?"
That voice—Patrick's—rasped across my nerves like a file on steel.
I forced my head up, fixing on him with the hatred that always tore me out of memories half-lived.
It felt as if part of my soul was still trapped back there—and the piece that stood here now was the angry, dangerous shard.
Patrick hovered beside the table, eyes glued to my tray.
" Finish your supper. Back to your room—we're off shift."
I held my breath; afraid if I exhaled the heat of it might set him alight.
Every time I looked at his vile face I saw Steven—his last look, those sorrow-drowned eyes...
To keep a single tear from spilling, I turned away, shoveled salmon and salad into my mouth, chewing through the ache in my chest.
In the end I had pulled the trigger.
However deep the guilt, I knew if I hadn't, they would have tortured him to death anyway... drawn-out, screaming.
My own death never mattered; I had to spare him that.
I had killed the dearest person I had—because they left me no choice.
I emptied the tray quickly, rose without a word. Patrick fell in step—now that I wore a white admin jumpsuit we shared the same wing.
The elevator felt like a coffin with him inside. We stared, each hating the other.
Out on the admin corridor he actually looked... buoyant. That sly, wicked glimmer was back in his eyes.
I swiped my card; my door clicked.
" Think chumming up to Ashur'll raise you higher? Get you some crumbs?" he sneered.
I stood with my back to him, hand frozen on the handle, teeth grinding.
While unlocking his own door he added, dripping contempt,
" Bad news, little girl... Word came from the apex. Ashur ships out soon. Now that he's finally talking, the price tripled—Russia's buying. Even the doctor can't stop the sale."
A boulder plummeted into my chest.
Blood roared in my ears; heat flooded my face.
" When he's gone," Patrick went on, "we won't need you. You know too many secrets—so they'll kill you."
His boots crossed the threshold. Before slamming the door he laughed:
" Enjoy the comforts while you can!"
The latch clicked.
I sucked in air, stumbled inside my room and kicked the door shut, then slid to the floor.
Everything had just collapsed.
If they moved Ashur there'd be no window to pull him out.
Which meant—against every plan, every schedule—I would have to run the endgame now:
Spring Ashur before they smuggle him away... or die trying.