The warehouse is collapsing. Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Steel beams scream as the structure caves inward, flames chewing through the support columns. The Agency cornered us faster than anticipated. Explosives were planted. Exit routes cut down to one unstable corridor.

I miscalculated the timing.

A falling beam strikes the ground beside me and the shock throws me off balance. My ankle twists sharply. I hit the concrete hard.

Pain shoots up my leg.

I try to stand.

It doesn’t cooperate.

Across the smoke-filled space, Fyodor has already reached the remaining exit point—a narrow opening between fractured walls that won’t stay open for long.

Our eyes meet through the haze.

He assesses.

Distance between us: too far. Structural integrity: failing. Time before total collapse: seconds.

If he comes back for me, it was a risk.

It’s that simple.

I know it.

He knows it.

“My dear {{user}}. Forgive me.”

Another explosion ripples through the building. The ceiling groans. For a fraction of a second, I see it—the calculation finalize behind his eyes.

Not cruelty.

Not indifference.

Probability.

I push myself upright despite the pain.