5. Dmitri
Dmitri
Orlov knocks, and I already know what he’ll say. Katya isn’t buying the story anymore.
“She’s asking too many questions,” I tell him the moment he steps inside, keeping my voice low so Katya can’t hear me in the next room. “About things that don’t add up.”
Mikhail Orlov sets his medical bag on the marble counter with a humming sound that tells me he’s thinking through his response.
He gives me that look I’ve seen since I was twelve years old—part disappointment, part resignation.
The man’s been my personal doctor for more than twenty years, ever since he patched up the first set of broken ribs my father gave me during “training.”
A former military medic, now treating Moscow’s criminal elite. He never talks about the transition.
His hands are steady as a surgeon’s, scarred from years of emergency field medicine, and he’s got the kind of calm demeanor that comes from seeing too much violence to be shocked by anything anymore.
“How suspicious?” He tugs on his gloves a little too sharply, and the snap is louder than it should be.
“Enough to make me nervous. She’s noticing inconsistencies in the story, asking for records that don’t exist, and questioning why everything about her life feels foreign.”
“This was inevitable, Dmitri. Memory suppression only works for so long, especially with someone with extensive training.” He opens his medical bag and rummages through the instruments. “The mind wants to return to its natural patterns.”
“I just need more time.”
“Time for what? The woman’s training is reasserting itself whether you want it to or not.” He pauses in his setup to fix me with a direct stare. “What is your endgame?”
Before I can answer, Katya emerges from the bedroom wearing the hospital gown I brought her.
She looks small in it, vulnerable, which is the opposite of what she is.
But there’s something different in the way she moves today. She seems less lost, more aware of her surroundings.
Her eyes sweep the corners, the door, the shadows. Counting exits like she’s done it a thousand times.
Every move drags her closer to the woman she used to be—the one trained to kill men like me.
If she remembers, she’ll ruin everything. That’s why I can’t let her remember. I’ll break her down first. Twist her instincts until they serve me alone.
And God help me, I want her all the more for it.
“Mrs. Kozlov,” Orlov greets her, his voice shifting to warm professionalism as he stands and extends his hand. “Good to see you again. How are you feeling since our last visit?”
“Like I’m living someone else’s life.” I catch the way her eyes scan him from head to toe. Not checking him out; checking for notable details. Height, weight, potential threat level, probable weapons.
She shakes his hand with just enough pressure to be polite, but I notice how she positions her feet for better balance, and how she keeps her other hand free and relaxed at her side in case she needs it.
“That’s normal with retrograde amnesia.” Orlov gestures toward the dining table where he’s set up his equipment. “Your brain is rebuilding your sense of identity from scratch. It’s like learning to be yourself all over again.”
She nods but doesn’t move toward the table. Instead, she picks a spot that keeps both Orlov and me in her line of sight, with the kitchen doorway just a step away. She does it without even thinking. Smart positioning.
“The headaches have improved.” She finally walks over but chooses the chair that faces the room rather than the one Orlov intended for her to take.
“That’s excellent progress. What about the other symptoms we discussed the last time I was here? Memory flashes, disorientation?”
“The flashbacks are getting stronger. More detailed.” She settles into the chair with her spine straight and her hands resting on her thighs in a way that would allow for quick movement. “They don’t match what my husband tells me about being an art curator.”
Orlov shoots me a glance over her head before responding. “Trauma manifests differently for everyone. Sometimes, the mind creates scenarios where you feel in control as a way to process feelings of helplessness.”
“So, I didn’t learn hand-to-hand combat?”
“Given your background, it’s highly unlikely. These are probably composite memories. Fragments of movies, books, and things you’ve seen that your brain is reassembling into false experiences.”
He pulls out his penlight and approaches her chair. “May I check your pupil response?”
She nods and tilts her head back, but I notice she doesn’t close her eyes during the examination. She’s still watching, still assessing.
“Good response.” Orlov clicks the light off. “Reflexes appear normal. Any dizziness or nausea?”
“None.”
“Excellent. Let’s try some coordination tests.”
He guides her through the usual battery: Follow the moving finger, touch nose to fingertip, and stand on one foot. She executes each task without so much as a stumble.
When Orlov has her walk a line heel-to-toe, she moves like she’s walking a tightrope. Her balance is perfect, her breathing is controlled, and every step is placed with accuracy.
“Outstanding motor control,” Orlov observes as he makes notes on his clipboard. “Much better than I expected given the severity of your head trauma.”
“Is that unusual?” She sits back down but perches on the edge of the chair rather than settling fully into it.
“Everyone heals at their own pace. Your recovery has been remarkably smooth.” But over her head, he gives me a look that says everything. That wasn’t civilian coordination. That was someone trained to move silently, to maintain balance under stress, and to fight when necessary.
He continues with reflex tests by tapping her knees and elbows with a small rubber hammer. Each response is quick and stronger than what you’d expect from someone who’s supposedly spent years hunched over art books.
“Now for grip strength.” He holds out a device that measures pounds of pressure.
She takes it, and I watch her face as she squeezes. Her expression goes blank for a moment. The device registers the pressure, and Orlov’s eyebrows rise to his hairline.
“That’s… quite strong. Can you try again, but more gently this time?”
She realizes what happened and adjusts, but the damage is done. That first squeeze was the real her.
“Sorry,” she mumbles as she hands the device back. “Sometimes I don’t know my strength.”
“No problem. We’ll recommend some physical therapy to help you recalibrate.
” Orlov makes another note and then pulls out a series of cards with black and white images.
“Word association test. I’ll show you pictures, and you tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Don’t think about it, just respond.”
The first few are innocuous. Flower gets “pretty.” Car gets “fast.” House gets “safe.”
Then he shows her a picture of a knife. Her gaze sharpens, too focused for something so ordinary.
“Throat,” she says automatically, the word flat and matter-of-fact. Then she blinks, and she scrunches up her face. “I meant… for cutting food.”
But we all heard that first response. Cold. Clinical. The response of someone who’s used knives for purposes that have nothing to do with cooking.
Orlov makes a careful note before showing the next card, a man in a business suit talking on a phone.
“Target.” Her hand flies to her mouth as she sucks in a gasp. “I don’t know why I said that. I meant… businessman?”
“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor assures her.
The last card shows a foreign government building. She doesn’t pause.
“Enemy.” The word is out before she seems to realize it. “That’s… that doesn’t make sense. Why would I think that?”
“Sometimes, our minds make connections we don’t consciously understand,” Orlov offers as he packs up his materials. “It’s all part of the healing process.”
His hands shake as he closes his medical bag, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.
Those weren’t random associations. Those were the responses of someone who’s been trained to see the world in terms of threats and targets.
“Could we speak privately for a moment?” Orlov gestures toward my office.
“Of course. Katya, why don’t you get dressed? We’ll be right back.”
She nods and heads toward the bedroom.
“Her responses confirm everything we already know,” Orlov declares once we’re alone in my office with the door closed behind us.
“Which is?”
“She’s a trained operative whose conditioning is breaking through faster than we anticipated.” He sets his medical bag down hard enough to make the contents rattle. “Those reflexes, the word associations, the way she positions herself… it’s all textbook intelligence training.”
“Can you slow it down somehow? Medication, therapy, something?”
“With what? Sedatives? Memory suppressants? Dmitri, we’re not talking about erasing a bad breakup. This woman’s personality was built around being a weapon.”
“I just need a few more weeks.”
“For what? To fall deeper into whatever fantasy you’re constructing?” He stops pacing and fixes me with a hard stare. “This has to end.”
“When I say it ends.”
“What about the ethics of what we’re doing? I took an oath to do no harm, and what we’re doing to that woman…” He gestures toward the bedroom. “This is psychological torture.”
“You’ve been bending your ethics for the Kozlov family for twenty years. Don’t suddenly grow a conscience now.”
Orlov’s face hardens. “Patching up bullet wounds is helping people survive. This is something else entirely.”
“This is business.”
“No, this is obsession. And it’s going to get you killed when she remembers what you did to her.” He picks up his medical bag. “She’s not a pet, Dmitri. She won’t stay tame just because you want her to.”
My phone buzzes on the desk.
Alexei: Need to talk. FSB activity is ramping up. They’re asking about her by name now.
“I have to take this,” I tell Orlov as I glance at the screen.
“What should I tell her about the test results?”
“Tell her she’s healing well. Normal recovery. Whatever keeps her stable for now.”
Alexei’s second text is more urgent: Viktor’s people asking questions. Getting close.
Orlov stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, which maybe I have. A month ago, the plan was simple: Make Alexandra Volkova fall in love with me, then destroy her. Show her what it feels like to have someone she trusts betray her.
Now, watching Katya struggle with an identity I’ve fabricated, simple revenge doesn’t seem so simple.
The woman coming back isn’t the operative I swore to break. She’s not the enemy I built this plan around.
She’s something else.
The closer she gets to human, the harder it is to remember why I want her destroyed.
“Dmitri, you need to think about what you’re doing. Your real motivations.”
“Get out.”
The doctor shoots me one last disapproving look before heading for the service entrance, and Katya emerges in his place, fully dressed in jeans and a fitted sweater that somehow makes her look more dangerous rather than less.
“Everything okay?” she asks, noting my expression. “You look tense.”
“Business issues. Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Maybe I want to worry about it.” She crosses her arms, and the gesture pushes her sweater tightly against her body in a distracting way. “Maybe I’m tired of being protected from everything that concerns my life.”
There’s an edge to her voice that wasn’t there yesterday. She sounds colder. More direct. The real Katya is bleeding through the amnesia like water through cracks in a dam.
“Some things are better left alone.”
“And some things are too important to ignore.” She steps closer, moving into my personal space with the confidence of someone who’s never been afraid of confrontation.
“What makes you think this is anything outside the ordinary for me?”
“Because you’re scared.” She tilts her head, studying my face with the kind of focus that makes me feel like a specimen under a microscope. “And you don’t seem like someone who scares easily.”
Direct hit. She’s reading me perfectly.
“Get some rest.” I step back to put some distance between us. “We’ll talk later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
But watching her walk away, I know it’s a promise I might not be able to keep. From the sounds of it, the FSB is closing in, and my time with Katya—willing or unwilling—is running out.