Page 79 of Imperfect Desires

I hang up.

I move to the weapons cabinet in the corner, flipping the lock and throwing the doors open. Inside: order, precision, death. Everything in its place.

I strap on my Kevlar vest, load magazines into twin Glocks, and slide my combat knife into its sheath. I add a second blade, hidden in my boot. Every weapon has a purpose. Every piece of gear is a memory.

My fingers move with practiced familiarity—calm, composed, lethal.

This isn’t just a mission.

It’s personal.

I stare at my reflection in the metal cabinet. The man looking back at me isn’t the version Alina knew. He’s colder. More dangerous.

And he’s going to settle old scores.

29

Alina

I hear the click of the lock before the door even swings open, but I don’t stand. I don’t move. I’ve learned the value of stillness here—how staying still sometimes keeps you from being noticed.

Mendes strides in with a confident swagger, wearing a button-down shirt as if this were a business meeting and not a prison. Behind him follows a man I haven’t seen before—bald, thick around the middle, and carrying a black medical bag that swings like a weapon at his side. His expression is blank, but there’s a hardness in his eyes.

He is definitely not the kind of doctor who saves lives. Instead, he is the kind who uses his knowledge for power.

“This is Dr. Henaro,” Mendes says, like he’s introducing a dinner guest. “He’s going to help confirm the wonderful news.”

Wonderful.

My stomach coils.

Henaro doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t acknowledge me. He opens his bag and pulls out a small plastic pouch. “We’ll need a urine sample,” he says, his voice rough, not from age but from habit—like someone used to shouting over screaming patients or silencing them entirely.

He holds out a plastic container toward me.

Mendes watches me, arms folded, an evil smile playing on his lips. “Cooperate, my dear wifey. It makes everything easier.”

There it is again. That delusion. That twisted pet name he’s adopted as if he has the right to it. He talks like we’re already halfway down the aisle. Like I haven’t spent every waking moment planning how I might escape.

I reach for the container with shaking fingers.

“Bathroom’s through there. Don’t take long.” Mendes says.

I make mechanical steps toward the bathroom. The mirror above the sink is cracked—five jagged fractures like a spiderweb splitting my reflection apart. I stare at myself for a second longerthan I should. My eyes look haunted. My lips are pale. I’m not the girl who came here.

I close the door, lower the toilet lid, and sit. The humiliation of it hits me fast and deep.

I’m peeing into a plastic cup so that the man who kidnapped me can decide if I get to keep the child growing inside me.

Tears threaten.

I choke them down.

I hold the warm container in my hands like it’s a live grenade and walk back out into the room.

Mendes is still smiling. Dr. Henaro is tapping a test strip impatiently against his hand.

As I approach, I “trip” slightly, and the container jolts. A thin stream splashes onto Henaro’s coat.

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