Page 222 of Sexting the Pakhan

I close my eyes for a second, not out of grief, just memory. The impact. The taste of blood. Clawing back up the side because there was no version of the world where I let Mila think I had chosen the fall over coming back.

When I open my eyes, Stepan is still watching me.

“You had Ilya’s body moved,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if they found him where he fell, half the city would start asking about you. I can’t exactly present your body,” he says.

That’s true enough that I don’t argue.

“Where?”

“A lime pit near the old brick kilns,” he says. “No marker. No record. No one will dig there unless they already know what they’re looking for.”

I let that sit for a second.

“You left the body unclaimed.”

“Yes.”

“No one identified it?”

Stepan’s mouth moves slightly. “No one could identify it easily. The fall helped.”

I understand. A ruined body at the base of a quarry doesn’t need a name if the men telling the story are already terrified. They see what they expect to see.

“And Pavel?” I ask.

“He thinks the body is yours.”

“Does he need to?”

“For now.”

I look at the blanket over my legs, at the hard line the bandages make under the hospital sheet, at the shape of the life that is already moving away from me.

“He was loyal.”

“He still is,” Stepan says. “That’s why he can’t know yet.”

“If Ruslan Karelin dies,” I say slowly, “then nobody hunts for the man after.”

“That was the theory.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s not theory.” He reaches into his coat and brings out a slim folder. No flourish. No speech. He places it on the bed beside my hand.

Inside is a passport.

Stepan says, “The name is Anton Melnyk.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s forgettable. That matters more.”