Page 19 of Break Me Apart
He doesn’t look at me.
The instructor passes him on the way out without stopping. That’s when I realise it’s not a single incident or a mistake. It’s a pattern. It’s something rehearsed enough that everyone knows how far they can push without crossing a line that would force intervention.
Mason stands eventually, slower than usual, and gathers his things. When he walks out, he does it alone. I stay where I am, against the wall, eyes tracking the room as it empties. I note who avoided Mason afterwards, who watched too closely, and who looked relieved when it was over.
When I finally leave, I’m already adjusting my own position, thinking about angles, about where to stand next time so I don’t miss it when it happens again.
Because it will.
I get to comms that evening; the room is dim with low-lit screens and the steady hum of equipment. I’m halfway through logging a routine update when a line lights up on the phone. It’s not an internal line, not one of ours.
I stare at it for a second, thinking it’s a fault.
Then it rings.
SIX
ARSENY
It’s just after midnight for him. I don’t need to check the time again. I’ve already worked it out in my head twice. The phone sits on the desk of the empty barracks room — that I may or may not have “borrowed” the key to — like it’s nothing. It has no history, no name attached, no questions asked.
In short, completely untraceable.
He said he’d be in comms most evenings now. Radios needing babysitting after midnight, apparently. He wrote it like a throwaway detail, like it means nothing.
I sit back in the chair and let the room settle around me. It’s 0300, pitch black, and the base is practically dead.
Email was fine for a while, until I read the last one. There are things you can shape in writing. Things you can avoid. Tone can be rearranged. Silence can be strategic. But I read his last message twice, and what hides in the context isn’t something I want left open to interpretation.
I reach for the phone, then I dial the number I stole from the admin office. The line connects with a soft click, then the low, familiar wash of static.
First, there’s silence, then the voice I recognise. “Comms.”
“Privet, detka.”
“Ari? What are you playing at?”
“I wanted to hear your voice,” I say, leaning back in the chair. I can almost picture his mouth; he’s deciding whether to make a joke or pretend to tell me off.
“Oh?” he asks. “Any reason in particular?”
“Maybe.” There’s a quiet exhale. He knows me too well for that to pass without a comment.
“That’s not ominous at all,” he says. “How did you get a phone?”
“Don’t worry about that. I have it handled.”
“I should hang up,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“You won’t.” I imagine him turning slightly away from the desk, lowering his voice without even thinking. “I called because we need to talk properly.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” His voice shifts immediately. I can picture the expression on his face and the careful stillness he gets when he thinks something’s about to go wrong.
“Not like that,” I say quickly.
“Like what then?”
“About what you said. About things being temporary.”
