Page 20 of Tattooed Heart

“No foaming,” Mikhail mutters beside me. “It’s something clean. Expensive. You've made an impression.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the body being dragged across the linoleum like a bag of laundry.

My jaw clenches hard enough that pain radiates down my neck. Not because I’m surprised. Because I’m done. Done waiting.Done reacting. And done playing the part of the caged animal someone else is trying to slaughter.

They want me to fear the food, the air, and the man beside me. But it only solidifies what I already know. This isn’t prison, it’s war. And I refuse to die in here.

I push my tray away untouched, the plastic edge scraping softly against the table.

Mikhail doesn’t look at me, but I see the nod. The quiet confirmation. They made their move. Now, it’s my turn.

Lockdown comes fast after the body is dragged across the floor. Guards swarm like angry hornets, batons out, and voices sharp with the fear that makes men violent. They herd us back to our cells. No yard time or showers. Nothing but concrete and steel until they figure out what happened.

Not that they will. Men like Morozov pay well for silence, and money buys everything in here, even the blindness of those paid to watch.

My cell is six steps long and four steps wide. A metal toilet with no seat. A sink that runs rust-colored water for thirty seconds before it clears. A mattress thin enough to feel every spring beneath. This is where they expect me to break.

I sit on the edge of the bed, hands on my knees, and breathe deeply. The image of Sandy flickers through my mind like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The fierce determination in her eyes, the gentle curve of her belly where our child grows. Her fingers tracing the scars on my back in the darkness, never asking where they came from but understanding all the same.

She won’t give up. So, neither will I.

From somewhere down the corridor, a man is sobbing the kind of broken animal sounds that tell me he's been pushed past his limits. Another curses rhythmically, a metronome of rage punctuated by the sound of fists against concrete.

But what snares my attention is the silence from the cell directly across from mine. Mikhail stands at his cell bars, eyes locked on the corridor, waiting and listening. His body is wound tight like a spring about to snap.

The guards are supposed to make rounds every hour. But tonight, the pattern shifted. Boots on concrete every fifteen minutes. It’s a break in the routine that tells me everything I need to know.

They’re coming for me.

I don’t move or tense. I wait, my mind calculating exits, weapons, and angles, planning the bloody chess match that is about to begin.

When the footsteps finally approach, there are three sets of them. Not the usual two. The jingle of keys is preceded by a hushed conversation. My door slides open with a metallic groan that vibrates through my teeth.

There are two guards and a third man in civilian clothes. He is tall and lean, the type of man who enjoys his work a little too much.

“Popov.” My name in his mouth sounds like an accusation. “Up.”

I don’t ask where we are going. I don’t need to. The thin smile on the civilian's face tells me this isn’t a scheduled trip for questioning.

I stand slowly, my hands visible, telegraphing compliance as my muscles brace for what is to come.

One of the guards, who is younger than the others, with acne scars and nervous eyes, cuffs me roughly. It’s clear he is new. His hands shake slightly as the metal closes around my wrists.

The civilian steps closer, his breath like cigarettes and stale coffee. “You've been causing problems,” he hisses. “Time to resolve them.”

I meet his eyes without fear or anger. With nothing but the cold calculation that has kept me alive through wars most men will never understand.

“Lead the way,” I reply, my voice even as stone.

They march me down the corridor, Mikhail's eyes following our procession. I don’t look at him. The plan we whispered in the yard three days ago was already in motion.

“If they come for you after lights out, it's not for questioning,”he'd told me, his voice barely audible above the sounds of men working out around us.“You'll have ten seconds. Maybe less. The camera in the east corridor has been broken since Tuesday. They'll take you through there to avoid the main hallway cameras. That’s where they intend to kill you. You’ll have one chance to break free and get to the laundry room. Hide in the outgoing bin until you’re loaded into the van. Once you’re past the gates, you’re free.”

I count steps as we walk. Left at the first junction and right at the second. We are heading toward the administrative wing but on a route that bypasses the night guard's station, exactly as Mikhail had predicted.

The east corridor stretches before us, dim fluorescents throwing more shadows than light. There are no cameras or witnesses, just a long stretch of concrete perfect for an “accident.”

I slow my steps fractionally. The guard behind me shoves hard, impatient.

---