Chapter 2 #2
I stand in the cell for a second too long, palms still open like I'm waiting for cuffs that aren't coming back yet. My chest expands, stalls, then forces air in again. The quiet presses harder than the noise ever did.
Mikhail Volkov.
His name repeats until it loses shape and becomes weight instead of sound.
I pace again, but the rhythm's off. Four steps to the bars. Three back. It's the pattern that kept me sane before I knew someone had rewritten my future in a room without windows and called it "help."
Compliance.
Discretion.
Those words were meant to sound civilized, but they aren't. They're rules designed to own me.
Pacing turns into frustration, so I sit on the bench. My forearms rest on my thighs, hands hanging loose, but my fingers twitch like they're searching for something to grip.
He said my arrest created ripples, as if I were a stone tossed into water that wasn't supposed to move.
I close my eyes, and the image that comes isn't the cell or Volkov's cold stare. It's Blue, with sunlight catching the edge of her hair, fury sharp enough to cut through sirens, and confusion cracking something open behind her eyes.
She doesn't belong near cages, much less in them.
I need to know if she's okay.
My jaw tightens until my molars ache. Time turns to molasses.
A guard passes, and keys jingle. Somewhere down the hall, a man shouts and gets silenced. The sound hits and fades, temporary and disposable.
A different guard appears next to the bars. He's younger, and his eyes don't linger. He orders, "Mercer. Step forward."
I do.
He doesn't cuff me. He opens the door and instructs, "Follow me."
I obey, snaking through the hallway and popping out into another room. A man wearing a badge but street clothes sits across from Mikhail.
"Sit," Mikhail orders, pulling the chair next to him away from the desk.
I don't argue.
"Sign here," he orders, pointing at a line on a stack of papers.
I pick it up, reading fast, scanning for the landmines that should be there to destroy my career or Blue's reputation.
There aren't any.
My confession is twisted into a misunderstanding by the authorities. The public disturbance gets misattributed to a mistaken identity.
It scares me more than the original charges ever did.
"Sign," Mikhail orders sternly.
My heart races faster. My signature doesn't just make my previous problem go away. It comes with new problems that I don't have a handle on yet. There's no way this won't come back to bite me.
Still, my choices are bleak. So I sign, and stare at my name, which looks wrong on the page, like it doesn't belong to me anymore.
My belongings come next. The officer returns my wallet, watch, and phone. He clears his throat. "Sorry about the misunderstanding." He picks up the papers, rises, and leaves, shutting the door.
Mikhail stands and warns, "It's just as easy to make this come back as it was for me to clean it up."
"Is that a threat?" I spout.
"Yes." He narrows his gaze on mine. "Whatever happened between the two of you, it's now over. The Ivanovs aren't men you want to test."
A fresh chill runs down my spine.
"Have a good day, Dr. Mercer," he offers, then strolls out of the room.
I don't move, trying to process everything that's happened.
A guard appears. "We need the room. You're free to go."
I stare at him.
"Did you need something?" he asks, irritated.
"No," I mumble, and brush past him, following the arrows on the floor until I'm out in the fresh air.
It takes several blocks before I slow down. I finally sit on a bench, take out my phone, and turn it on. Sound narrows to a violent drumbeat inside me, every strike blurring the edges of the lake.
I open my text messages and clench my jaw, staring at the cleaned app.
Recent calls end abruptly hours before the arrest. Messages are missing, and drafts are gone. Even my location history looks scrubbed, like someone wiped fingerprints off a glass surface, leaving only reflections.
Blue's number, text chain, and photographs don't exist.
They erased her.
They erased us.
A laugh threatens to tear out of my throat, sharp and humorless, but I swallow it down.
A couple walks past the bench, laughing, shoulders brushing, hands locked. Their happiness scrapes against my nerves. I tuck the phone into my pocket like it burned me and stare out at the water instead. Wind ripples the surface, sunlight breaking apart and reforming in fragments that never settle.
Ripples.
Volkov chose that word carefully.
I flex my hands, watching the tendons shift beneath my skin, deciding it isn't panic I'm feeling. Panic is loud, but my emotions are quieter and sharper. They're the kind of awareness that locks into place when you realize the rules you thought applied no longer do.
Compliance buys time.
Discretion buys survival.
Neither buys safety.
I replay the moments in the room. Volkov's calm certainty, the way the guards deferred without question, and the speed at which my problem evaporated. None of that exists in a normal situation. Power like that doesn't act unless it's protecting something larger than the law.
Blue.
Where is she?
She has to be out of jail if I am, yet the certainty stays unresolved, driving me crazy.
I have to stay away from her.
I couldn't before, how can I now?
Last night floods my memories. I close my eyes, letting the sun heat my face, and fall prey to every sound and vision of us together that pops up.
I've spent my career watching people rationalize danger until it's already too close to avoid. I officially became just like my clients. And I know I didn't escape it just because I walked out of jail with papers signed, saying today was just a misunderstanding.
Mikhail wasn't there for mercy. He was a warning. One I should adhere to at all costs, and never look back.
I can't.
All I see is my Bluebird, unraveling in my arms, cheeks flushed, and crying out my name. Then, she's in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, telling me, "I'll never leave you."
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I don't pull it out. Then the buzzing cuts off, leaving the air too quiet, like the city's holding its breath with me.
I rise and walk a few feet. My phone rings. I freeze. It rings again, and I pull it out of my pocket.
It's a blocked number, so I throw it into voicemail.
It rings again. My heart races faster.
Maybe it's Blue.
Volkov's voice ghosts through my head about compliance and discretion, but something about his insistence tightens low in my gut.
This isn't a check-in.
It's a test.
I send it to voicemail, but it immediately rings again.
"Fuck," I mutter, and swipe to answer before I can overthink it. "Yes."
Silence stretches on the line. Calm breathing fills the space.
It's not her breath.
"Who is this?" I ask.
A young woman's voice states, "Dr. Mercer, you don't know me, but you will."
My spine stiffens. "Who is this?"
"My name is Demi."
The city noise fades until all I hear is her voice and the pulse thudding behind my eyes. I grip the phone harder, knuckles whitening. I snap, "You shouldn't be calling me."
She scoffs, "Everyone keeps telling me what I shouldn't do today."
I scan the sidewalk automatically, tracking faces, reflections, and exits. "How did you get this number?"
She answers, "I asked. And people tend to answer when I do."
Of course they do.
Demi continues, "I know what happened. I know you didn't mean for it to spiral. I also know my family fixed it."
Anger hits me. "That doesn't give you the right—"
"It gives me curiosity. And curiosity is dangerous in my house."
I close my eyes for half a second. "What do you want?"
She pauses, then chirps, "I want to meet you."
"Why?"
"Because men don't get pulled into Ivanov territory by accident. And if you're already in it... Well, you're going to need a friend on your side."
My gut twists.
Her voice drops. "Don't you want to know how Blue's doing?"
The line stays open, waiting for my response.
So does the fire I keep stepping into.