7. The Warehouse #2
But I trusted him anyway. Or I wanted to. Or I wanted something from him—safety, purpose, the chance to use my hands for something other than pouring coffee.
And now I've seen the cages. And I can't unsee them.
I push open the door and step into the alley.
The cold hits me first—a sharp, bracing slap that makes me gasp. Then the smell of the river, rotting and sweet. Then the sound of my own body, betraying me.
I lean against the brick wall and vomit.
It comes in waves—first the coffee from earlier, then the bile, then nothing but dry heaves that leave me shaking and weak. I press my forehead against the cold brick and breathe, in and out, in and out, trying to find the steady rhythm I learned in the barn.
You lean in, my mother said.
I lean in. I lean into the wall, into the cold, into the sickness that's crawling through my veins like something alive. I lean into the knowledge of what I've just seen, what I've just become a part of, what I've just agreed to help.
"You're still here."
His voice comes from behind me. I don't turn around. I can't. My body is still heaving, still shaking, still trying to expel something that isn't in my stomach anymore.
"I was throwing up," I say. "In case you couldn't tell."
"I can smell it."
I finally turn. Aleksander is standing at the corner of the building, half in shadow, half in the sickly yellow light that spills from the warehouse door. He's wearing a dark coat, open over his suit, and his hands are in his pockets. He looks like he's been standing there for a while.
"Were you watching?" I ask.
"Waiting."
"Same thing."
"Different intentions."
He walks toward me. His footsteps are quiet on the gravel, almost silent, and I feel my body tense as he approaches. Not because I'm afraid he'll hurt me—I'm not, not physically—but because I'm afraid of what I'll see in his face. The truth of him. The monster behind the grey eyes.
He stops a few feet away and pulls something from his pocket. A handkerchief. White, clean, folded into a neat square. He holds it out to me.
"Your mouth," he says.
I take it. The fabric is soft—expensive, like everything else about him. I wipe my lips, my chin, the places where the bile has left its mark. The handkerchief comes away stained, and I fold it over on itself, hiding the evidence.
"Now you know," he says.
The words land like stones dropped into still water. Now you know. Now you've seen the cages. Now you understand what I am, what I do, what I've built.
"What are you?" I ask.
He's quiet for a long moment. The wind blows off the river, cold and damp, and I watch his face in the shifting light. The grey eyes. The silver at the temples. The lines around his mouth that might be from smiling or might be from something else entirely.
"Someone who needs someone like you," he says. "To fix what breaks."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
I want to scream at him. I want to hit him, to hurt him, to make him feel even a fraction of what those women in the cages must feel.
But I don't. Because I'm not that person.
Because I'm someone who leans in, not someone who lashes out.
Because my hands are steady, and steady hands don't shake when they should.
Instead, I say: "I need more money."
He tilts his head. Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or respect.
"Excuse me?"
"More money. For the job. For the medical work." I fold my arms across my chest, holding myself together. "I saw what's in there. I know what you're asking me to help with. I'm not doing it for minimum wage."
"You want hazard pay."
"I want to survive."
He looks at me for a long, searching moment. Then his mouth curves—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace, something in between that looks almost like admiration.
"Name your price."
I do. It's more than I've ever made in a year. It's enough for vet school, if I ever get out of this alive. It's enough to send my father money, to help my sisters, to build something that isn't built on blood.
He agrees without hesitation. No negotiation, no bargaining. Just a nod, a quiet done, and I know I've been played. He would have paid me anything. He would have given me the world, if I'd asked.
Because he needs me. Because I'm the only person who can do what I do, who can stitch his men back together without flinching, who can look at the cages and not run screaming into the night.
Because I'm already his. I just don't know it yet.
He walks me to my car. The gravel crunches under our feet, and the wind whips my hair across my face, and I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead. If I look at him, I'll see the cages. If I look at the warehouse, I'll see the women. If I look anywhere but forward, I'll fall apart.
"You should go home," he says. "Sleep. You have the diner tomorrow night."
"I have a name for you."
"What's that?"
"Monster." I stop at my car door and turn to face him. "That's what you are. That's what you've built. A monument to suffering. And I just agreed to be part of it."
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't defend himself. He just stands there, grey eyes steady, and takes the word like it's nothing new.
"Maybe," he says. "But I'm also the only thing standing between you and the people who would use you the same way I use those women. The world is not kind, Monika. It takes and takes and takes. I am not kind either. But I am honest about what I am."
"Honest." I laugh—a bitter, broken sound. "You've never told me a single true thing about yourself."
"I told you my name."
"A name is nothing."
"It's everything." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell cedar and smoke, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body in the cold night air. "I gave you my name, Monika. No one else has that. No one else ever will."
I should step back. I should get in my car and drive away and never look back. I should call the police, the FBI, the newspapers. I should do something other than stand here, frozen, watching him watch me.
But I don't.
Because I saw the cages. And I didn't run. And that makes me complicit. And complicity is a chain, heavy and cold, and I'm already wearing it.
"Take me home," I say.
He nods. "I'll have Viktor follow. To make sure you get there safely."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No. But you need someone to watch your back. The people who did this to Dmitri—they know about you now. They know you're connected to me. That makes you a target."
I feel something cold slide down my spine. "You should have told me."
"I'm telling you now."
I get in the car. He closes the door for me, his hand lingering on the handle for just a moment longer than necessary. Through the window, I watch him walk back toward the warehouse, his figure growing smaller and smaller until he disappears into the yellow light.
I sit in the dark for a long time, my hands on the steering wheel, my breath fogging the glass.
Then I start the engine and drive.
The apartment is dark when I get home.
I don't turn on the lights. I don't take off my shoes. I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower, as hot as it will go, and I stand under the water until my skin is red and my mind is empty.
The money. I tell myself it's for vet school. For the future. For the life I was supposed to have before the farm failed and the city swallowed me whole.
But I know I'm lying.
The money is for the guilt. The money is to make it bearable. The money is so I can look at myself in the mirror and pretend I have a choice.
I don't have a choice. I haven't had a choice since the night a bleeding man walked into my diner and I decided to lean in instead of stepping back.
My mother was right. It's a gift and a curse.
Tonight, it feels like both.