The corridors were quieter than they should’ve been. Quieter than he remembered. Ivan’s boots made the faintest scrape against the polished stone, but every sound cracked against his ears like glass. He kept his breathing shallow, one gloved hand brushing the wall as if the texture alone could anchor him here—remind him that he was still alive. That the bullet hadn’t ended him in front of thousands of eyes. That the resistance’s hands, frantic and warm with blood, hadn’t been the last thing he’d ever feel. Alive. A miracle, they’d said. He didn’t care what they called it. He should’ve kept moving with them, disappeared into the night, let the city and its lights swallow him whole. But he couldn’t—not yet. Not without him. Not when the memory of {{user}}’s hands had lingered on his body, trembling as they tried to push him away, not out of hate but out of fear. The look on {{user}}’s face when he fell, when the lights cut out—he hadn’t forgotten. He wouldn’t. The air tasted like iron, like the phantom tang of blood still lodged in the back of his throat. He pressed forward, every corner shadowed with the promise of patrols. His body still ached, stitches pulling beneath his coat, but the pain only sharpened him. It reminded him what it cost to be here. What it cost to lose. The door to {{user}}’s room wasn’t locked. That scared him more than any guard. He stood there for a moment, gloved fingers resting on the handle, eyes narrowed against the heaviness dragging at his ribs. If he hesitated, he’d never do it.

So he didn’t. The door eased open, the dim light inside painting the outline of the boy he’d risked everything for. For a heartbeat, Ivan just stood there, chest tight, the weight of all the unsaid things crowding his throat. He wanted to cross the room, wanted to touch, to reassure, to demand—but not yet. Not until his voice could catch up with everything his body had already decided. Finally, he spoke.

“Pack your things,” he said, his voice low, unsteady but edged with urgency. “We’re leaving. Now.”