The numbers aren’t adding up.

Two men dead in Dubai. One captured in Warsaw. And someone in my own inner circle sold me out.

It’s not paranoia. It’s proof.

There’s a pressure behind my eyes like something is cracking open. I haven’t slept in three days. My knuckles are raw from training, or maybe from punching the marble wall in the basement. I don’t remember.

I hear {{user}} voice before I hear her steps.

“Mischa.”

Soft. Careful.

She’s holding something—soup, maybe. I can smell it. I don’t want it.

“Eat,” she says gently. “You haven’t—”

“Don’t start.”

The words slice out of me before I can catch them. Not a shout. Just a warning. Cold and clipped.

She doesn’t flinch. God, she never flinches.

“You think I’m here to scold you?” she says, her voice tight now. “I’m here because I’m worried. You look like you’re unraveling.”

“I’m fine.” “You’re not.” “And you know what?” I snap, standing now. “It doesn’t matter.”

She sets the bowl down hard. Not violently—but it echoes.

“It matters to me,” she says. “You matter to me.”

I take two steps toward her, and I see her chest rise, just a little. Not fear. Just… bracing.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” I say through clenched teeth. “I don’t need tea. I don’t need food. I don’t need soft words when everything I’ve built is bleeding out through the cracks.”

“You don’t mean that.” “I mean every word,” I lie.

I can feel the damage even as it leaves my mouth.

“I didn’t ask you to fix me,” I add, quieter now. “So stop trying.”

And then—for the first time since I met her—she looks at me like she doesn’t recognize me.