The wind rustled the leaves, and all I could think about was how many blind spots this hill had.
From behind the tree, I kept my posture relaxed, arms folded, weight even. To anyone else, I was a silent, passive bodyguard. Present, but unobtrusive.
To me, I was a sniper without the rifle. Eyes on everything. Especially her.
Karina sat with her friends like she was supposed to — back straight, legs crossed, a picture of practiced ease. But I could tell something was off. Subtle, like the shift of balance before a fall. She was trying too hard to look still.
Freya nudged her. A small, natural thing. But Karina flinched.
Just for a second. Just enough for someone like me to notice.
I didn't move. Didn't say a word. But inside, my focus narrowed. Pulse steady. Muscles ready.
She was spiraling again — I'd seen it before, earlier in the hallway when the alarm went off. She froze too long. Not panic. Not shock. Just... internal collapse. Then something kicked in. Her breathing changed. Her shoulders locked. She switched.
I'd seen training like that. Maybe not recent, but deep. Installed young.
Her father didn't mention that when he handed me the file.
The girls kept talking, circling theories. Arguing gently. Throwing names around like loose puzzle pieces. But Karina hadn't said anything in minutes.
Her silence was louder than their noise.
I shifted my weight slightly and scanned the area. A teacher walked past the edge of the hill, talking too loud into a phone. Nothing strange. Two students across the quad kicked a ball. Still normal. But Nadya and Lev — two of the Russians — never made it to the grass with the rest of the evacuees.
I didn't like that.
Not because I had proof. Just instinct.
And because I only understood half of what they whispered when they thought no one was listening.
Still, orders were orders. Stay close to Karina. Report threats only if they became immediate. Don't alarm her.
Except alarm already lived in her, just under the surface. Always pacing. Always looking for a reason to claw out.
She reminded me of someone I used to know.
I turned my attention back to the group. Aline was typing again. Cassie had gone quiet. Freya was watching Karina too now, brow furrowed like she could sense something she didn't know how to name.
I didn't blame her. Karina was hiding something even from herself.
The moment broke when Freya cracked a joke, and the group started to stand. The bell hadn't rung, but apparently they were done with sitting still.
I moved before they noticed me move. Always three steps behind. Just enough to remind them I was there, but never enough to intrude.
Karina didn't look back. But I knew she knew I was following.
It was part of the arrangement.
And part of the weight she carried whether she wanted to or not.
We were halfway back toward the main building, cutting across the shaded courtyard, when her footsteps stopped.
I heard it before I turned — the absence of her pace behind me. The quiet inhale. The sharp stillness.
I turned, and she was standing there. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on mine.
"Talk," she said.
One word. Sharp enough to draw blood.
I didn't say anything. Yet.
She took a step forward. Her jaw tight, her expression pulled together like someone who was either going to scream or crack.
"I'm not stupid," she said, voice low. "You know something. You always know something. You never say anything. You're always watching, always... there. But when it matters? You're silent."
Her tone wasn't loud. That made it worse. She wasn't just angry — she was tired of being kept in the dark.
I glanced around. No one close enough to hear.
Still, I kept my voice calm. Measured. "Your father gave me orders."
"That's not an answer." She stepped closer. "I want to know why you're really here. Why now? Why the Russians showed up the same week I get assigned a bodyguard. Why you're always two steps behind me with this face like nothing ever gets to you."
Her breathing was picking up again. I watched it — the way her shoulders moved slightly, the way her fingers pressed into her arms where they were crossed. Holding herself in.
I hated this part.
"I'm here to protect you," I said. The same answer. The only answer I was allowed to give.
She laughed — cold, brittle. "That's what he said. But protect me from what? From who? Because if it's them, then just say it. Just—" She cut herself off. Her throat worked like she had to swallow something heavy. "I know they're not just random exchange students. I know I'm not just being paranoid."
"You're not."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Karina blinked.
There it was — the crack in the professional surface. And I couldn't take it back.
"Then tell me what I'm missing," she said. "Tell me why I feel like I'm going crazy. Why my whole life feels like it's suddenly not mine anymore."
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I couldn't.
Not without breaking the contract. Not without putting her in more danger than she already was.
She stared at me like she could burn the answers straight out of my mouth. Like if she stood there long enough, the silence would break on its own.
I met her gaze. Steady. Quiet. No expression.
She shook her head and stepped back, like she'd just realized she was wasting her breath.
"Fine," she said. "Keep your secrets."
She turned on her heel and started walking toward the main building again, the edge in her steps like a sword drawn.
I didn't move.
Not for a second.
But the guilt — the thing I wasn't supposed to feel — curled low in my chest anyway.
And for the first time since I'd taken this job, I wondered how long I'd be able to keep pretending that following orders meant doing the right thing.
She didn't say a word the whole way back.
And I didn't push her to.
Her footsteps echoed lightly ahead of me — steady, calculated — but that rhythm wasn't natural. It was too... controlled. Too intentional. The way someone walks when they're trying to seem calm but aren't. I've seen it before. I've walked that same way.
Karina had gotten quiet. Not the usual kind of quiet, either — not her sharp, passive-aggressive kind. This was... internal. She was somewhere deep inside her own head.
And I wasn't allowed in.
She moved with purpose, but her eyes were glassy. Focused on nothing. No signs of fear on her face, no trembling in her fingers. But I'd watched her long enough to know: something was cracking.
I always keep a certain distance — not out of respect, but out of protocol. Close enough to react, far enough to seem invisible. Her father made that clear.
"Protect her. No matter what. No excuses. Stay close. Always."
He never gave me details.
The file I got on Karina was clean. Too clean. Her school performance, a few medical notes, her schedule. No emotional assessments. No behavioral red flags. No mention of what I was seeing now — this strange calm just thin enough to peel away.
Nothing in the file told me why a girl could look so blank and yet be spiraling.
I didn't know she'd been trained. But the signs were there — not in the obvious ways. It was the way she walked like nothing had happened, despite the chaos just minutes ago. The way she kept her back straight like someone was watching. The way she made her fear so small it barely touched her face.
That wasn't natural. That was conditioning.
Her father didn't want me to know her. He wanted me to follow her.
And I did.
But every day, I realized how little I knew about the person I was assigned to protect.
And how dangerous that gap in knowledge could be.
We turned the corner to her classroom. She hesitated at the door. It was subtle, but I caught it — a flicker of hesitation, her hand hovering just above the handle like she wasn't sure if the world behind it was safe.
I stepped half a pace closer, just enough to be ready if something was waiting inside.
She didn't notice.
Her mind was elsewhere.
Still spiraling.
I hated watching it. This kind of quiet was always the worst — the kind people fall into right before they fall apart.
"Karina," I said, my voice low. Calm. Enough to anchor, I hoped.
She blinked. Slowly. Then turned to look at me.
Like she'd forgotten I was there.
Like she forgot where she was.
Her face didn't change much, but her shoulders shifted — barely. The smallest drop of her guard.
And that was something.
She nodded once. Shallow. Then turned the handle and walked in.
I followed. Silent. Watching.
Like always.