Page 43 of Playing with Fire

I slowed our approach. After everything he'd been through with Roche, sudden movements around Misha were never a good idea. The kid had spent months being treated like a living doll, drugged into compliance while a fashion designer tried to "preserve" him. Xander and I had barely gotten to him in time, and the psychological aftermath had left scars deeper than the physical ones.

"Hey Misha," I kept my voice casual as we stopped a respectful distance away. "How's it going?"

"Surviving," he answered with a slight shrug. His eyes drifted briefly to the middle distance before snapping back—a momentary dissociation I recognized from the early days after his rescue.

"How are your classes going?" Leo asked, settling in next to him on the ground. I followed, making sure to position myself where I could see anyone approaching, giving Misha one less direction to worry about monitoring.

Something changed in Misha's expression, a spark lighting his eyes. "Actually... really well. Better than I expected." He hesitated, then continued with growing animation. "I'm specializing in restorative work. You know, for open-casket viewings."

Leo tilted his head, clearly interested. "That sounds really meaningful."

Misha nodded, something almost like pride crossing his face. "It is. I work with people who've been through trauma—accidents, violence, illness that change how they look." His fingers stilled on his sleeve. "I help families see their loved ones one last time, the way they remember them."

After what Roche had done to him—treating human bodies as objects to be preserved and displayed according to his twisted aesthetic vision—Misha had found a way to reclaim that skill set for something deeply humane.

"That's... pretty incredible," I said, genuinely impressed. "Taking something horrible and using it to help people."

Misha's gaze dropped to his hands. "Roche taught me techniques I never wanted to know. How to preserve tissues, how to restructure features, how to create the illusion of life in death. Now I can use those same skills to give families closure, to let them say goodbye to someone who looks like the person they loved, not the broken body that was left behind."

Leo's expression softened. "You're re-humanizing people. After they've been dehumanized by death or trauma."

Misha looked up, surprised by how perfectly Leo had captured it. "That's... that's exactly it. I'm giving them back their humanity for one final moment."

His posture had changed as he spoke, the constant vigilance momentarily replaced by genuine passion. I'd never seen him this animated about anything since we'd rescued him.

"Did you always know this was what you wanted to do?" Leo asked.

Misha shook his head. "No. I think everyone expected me to run as far from death and preservation as possible after... after everything. But there was this moment during one of our field trips to a funeral home." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "There was this older funeral director working on a man who'd been in a car accident. His face was... it was gone, basically. Unrecognizable. But this mortician, he pulled out his tools, and it was like watching an artist. By the time he finished, this man had his dignity back. His wife could seehimone last time, not what had happened to him."

Misha's eyes took on a faraway look. "I realized I could do that. I could take the techniques I learned from a monster and use them to give people peace instead of pain. It felt like... taking something back."

"Reclaiming your story," Leo said quietly.

"Yes." Misha met his gaze, a moment of perfect understanding passing between them. "I won't let Roche define what I can do with my hands. I'd rather use them to heal, even if it's just healing grief."

Something shifted in my chest, watching him. This quiet kid who'd been through hell had found a way to transform his trauma into something powerful, something redemptive. He'd found purpose in the last place anyone would have expected. It was the kind of strength that didn't announce itself with violence or domination—the kind I was only beginning to recognize thanks to Leo.

"That's fucking badass," I said, the crude words a poor vessel for the respect I felt, but Misha seemed to understand. His lips quirked in a small, genuine smile.

"I think so too, sometimes," he admitted. "Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell everyone how sentimental I just got about dead bodies."

Leo laughed softly. "Your secret's safe with us." He hesitated, then added, "Though for what it's worth, I think they'd be proud of you. Your whole family. If they knew."

Misha shrugged, but I could see the impact of Leo's words in the slight relaxing of his shoulders. "Maybe. Someday I might be ready to tell them." His gaze shifted to me. "You get it though, right? Having secrets, even from family. Especially from family."

"More than most," I acknowledged, thinking of my own carefully compartmentalized life, the parts of myself I showed only to Leo. "But sometimes they surprise you. When you finally let them see who you really are."

"Speaking from experience?" Misha asked, his perceptiveness catching me off guard.

I glanced at Leo, at our hands still intertwined between us. "Recent experience."

"And?" Misha pressed.

I thought about how my family had welcomed Leo without hesitation, had seen what he meant to me before I could even put it into words myself. "And sometimes family sees you more clearly than you see yourself."

"Dinner!" Mom's voice rang out across the yard, breaking the moment. "Everyone to the tables!"

The backyard erupted into controlled chaos as people claimed seats and passed dishes. I kept a steady hand on Leo's lower back as we navigated to our spots, making sure he had a clear path through the crowd. I grabbed two plates, loading his with extra of the dishes I'd seen him enjoy before, making sure the portions of his favorites were generous. Misha followed, taking the place on Leo's other side, a small buffer against the full Laskin interrogation squad.

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