Patrick drifted over to the doctor and placed his gun in the doctor's hand. My gaze locked on the weapon.
The doctor followed my eyes and smirked. "Correct. We don't usually let anyone carry a gun in this wing… but today's an exception. I'm going to kill you with the same gun you used to shoot your pretty friend."
It felt like molten metal spilled over my heart. I stared at the gun, hating it. He came closer and pressed the muzzle to my temple.
"Tell me, Viona," he murmured, almost gentle, "so I can end it with one little pop. Quick. No pain. No games."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt frozen from the inside out, cold breath ghosting from my lips. I ground my teeth and took stock—his hands, Patrick a few paces off, the guards.
I waited for him to open his mouth again. The instant he did, I snapped my thumb out of joint behind my back. I smothered the pain between clenched lips; the tiny crack of bone was swallowed by his voice.
"What's Ashur's activation code?"
His tone was edged, impatient. Panting through the hurt, working my hand free without moving my shoulders, I said, "You… asked me a question. I didn't answer."
Breath ragged, eyes on his mocking face, I kept easing my thumb through the cuff. "You asked how I planned to break Ashur out."
While I talked, my brain ran the math—lines, angles, odds. Once my hand was free, what were the chances I could reach the gun, drop the guard to my left first? Like chess: hundreds of lines, pick the one with the highest win rate and the fewest bodies.
He pushed the barrel to my forehead. Cold metal kissed damp skin, the weight tipping my head back. My whole body tightened with adrenaline as my hand slid free of the cuff. I clamped my ruined thumb in my palm and held it there.
He watched me, lips thin. "Well?"
I looked to Ashur. He stared back with that dead, empty stillness—like a straw-stuffed statue with nothing inside.
Last variables checked. All angles weighed. Time to move.
I met the doctor's ugly eyes and let a slow smile cut my mouth. "I planned for everything. I knew I'd get caught. I was just waiting."
He cocked his head, pressed the gun harder. "Waiting for what?"
"For three mistakes," I said, smile widening. "One: letting me live. Two: bringing me here to Ashur. And three…"
I paused, grin turning feral, eyes wide, laughter scraping at my words. "Asking me to speak his wake code."
I turned to Ashur and locked on those void-black eyes. Breath sawing, I spoke the phrase the Tailor had smuggled to me on thread. This was it. Both our lives hung on a handful of syllables.
My lips shaped the words—
and I shouted them, cold and clear
:«Пробудизмею — час пиршества.»
The doctor seized my chin and wrenched my face toward him. His grip bit down hard as he snarled, "What did you tell him?"
I laughed—sharp, twisted with pain. "Didn't you say… to wake him up?"
Patrick hurried over, tense, and planted himself beside the doctor. "She said it in Russian: 'Wake the viper… it's feast time.'"
The doctor smirked. "So your little code wo—"
A heavy thud cut him off. All of us snapped toward the glass—and I felt my blood turn to ice.
Ashur had slipped his hands free of the metal chair and now stood before the glass like a man possessed. He'd slammed his fist against it. Blood smeared across the pane, and behind that streak his face—silent, terrifying—looked inhuman.
I stared, stunned, as he tilted his head and, half-hidden by the blood, dragged a finger across the glass.
"Змея проснулась… голубая бабочка."
"The snake is awake… blue butterfly."