Mischa Bachinski's chest ached as he gasped for a strangled breath, coughing as his heart beat itself erratically against the broken, bruised ribs that had pierced his lung. Everything...ached. Other than the unbearable burning pain in his chest, the side of his torso and his head were absolutely killing, throbbing with a hot, stinging pain.

Leaning against the headboard of the hospital bed, Mischa pulls the thin sheets back, trying to see under his hospital gown. The right side of his waist is bandaged and bloodied. It takes him a moment to realise the lower half of his right leg was gone. Just...gone. A bandaged, bloody stump in its place.

The Ukrainian cursed viciously under his breath, sitting up the best he can in a flurry of panic, ripping an IV out of his arm. Where the hell was he? Where was everyone else? His friends from the choir? They'd all been dead, including him, Karnak said so. And...where was his phone?