Alya
6 years ago.
I told myself it was for Mikhael.
Mikhael, with his permanent scowl and that stitched-up eyebrow, always halfway to pulling a knife on someone for breathing too loud. I told myself I went because we needed to go over the shipment plan again, because my father would ask for every detail, and if one thread unraveled, he'd strangle us both with it.
But I wasn't fooling anyone. Not even myself.
The night was heavy, thick with the sour stink of wet concrete and old rain clinging to the bones of the city. My boots hit the cracked pavement in steady, controlled steps — too controlled. Like if I didn't watch myself, I'd start running back to him.
God, what a pathetic thought.
