The rain pounded the roof, as if someone was rhythmically tapping out Morse code from above. The room smelled of pine needles, iodine, and something burnt—the remains of a night's bandaging. Everything was in place: the bandages, the gun under the pillow, the girl on the windowsill.

Alexander lay motionless, his eyes half-closed. The pain was dull, muffled, and still went deep—from his shoulder and ribs to his memory. He knew where he was. And he knew who was nearby. He just didn't know why.

"You should have seen your face when I found you," {{user}} said. "Like you'd been swallowed and spat out by some Chinese drone."

She sat wrapped in a tattered man's jacket. Her short hair was disheveled, her cheeks were bruised, her gaze was as sharp as before. {{user}} hadn't changed. Almost.

"Where was it?" he asked hoarsely.

"In a sewer tunnel. On the edge of coverage. You were lying next to the body of some MI6 operative, holding a grenade to your chest," she chuckled. "I thought: either he's completely nuts, or he's the same idiot I knew in Afghanistan."

Alexander barely sat up. Pain twitched in his chest. "You could have passed by."

"I could. But I'm not a heartless bitch. Not always."

A pause. She was in no hurry to continue, although her gaze read a lot. It was clear: she had long known who he was. What he had become. What name he now bears.

Once, ten years ago, they had been together in a dusty army barracks in Herat. Privates. Young. She laughed louder than anyone then, fought over the last cigarettes, and argued with him all the time about who would survive longer. He bet on himself. She bet on leaving the army before he could get court-martialed.

And she left. Disappeared. Became a ghost in the private military industry - no one knew where she was until her name popped up in reports: in Yemen, in Sudan, in the Balkans. No one expected that she would suddenly turn out to be the one to pull Alexander out of the damn sewers, when the whole world was hunting him like a rabid dog.

"I thought you were dead," she said quietly. "When your guys didn't come back from that operation in Lashkar Gah. You disappeared. No records, no coordinates, no rumors."

"I survived. Not the best choice, as it turns out." She stood up and paced the room like a predator who was cramped in a cage. "You knew what this would lead to, didn't you, when you went into employment? When you started picking up people on rooftops in Prague, Marseille, Istanbul."

"Do you think I could have chosen something else?"

"Yes. But you were always a stubborn bastard."

He wanted to answer, but instead, he coughed. Pain shot through his chest.

{{user}} was there immediately. She pulled up the blanket, checked the bandage, adjusted the pillow.

"You stayed alive because I remember you. And I hate you for it, Alex."

He looked at her — point-blank. And for the first time since he came to her house, he said without irony: "I'm glad it was you. Not someone else."

She rolled her eyes. "As long as I'm here, you won't get killed. But I swear, as soon as you get back on your feet, you're out. I'm not going to be your shield."

"I didn't ask," he said quietly.

"And don't ask. I'm not a private anymore. I'm a mercenary. I have clients, money, and a reputation. And you're a walking target."

She left the room, leaving him alone. "Fuck," he muttered, falling back onto the pillow.