Page 43 of The Atom Between Us

Kang steps in front of me, stance rigid, voice brittle with command. “Hold your ground,” he orders. His tone is clipped, unwavering—but I catch the flicker beneath, the hint of something raw and unguarded before he masks it again in steel. Confusion coils in my chest. One moment he’s protectively close, the next he’s cold authority, and I feel betrayed by the whip-lash changes.

They halt. Then one of them steps forward “Captain Kang,” he says. “Stand down.”

I know it’s Petrov. The Russian accent in his voice matches the one I heard crackling over Kang’s radio, only now it’s sharper, more controlled. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask questions—it issues consequences.

He moves like he was born for command—shoulders squared, every step deliberate. His uniform is pristine, crisp to the point of arrogance, the commander’s stripes gleaming like polished threats under the overhead lights.

His face is hard—chiseled and weathered, like stone carved by war. A jagged scar slices from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, pulling it into a near-permanent sneer. It doesn’t soften him. If anything, it completes the picture.

Steel-gray eyes lock on me from beneath heavy brows, cold and unreadable. They don’t flicker, don’t search. They assess. He doesn’t just look at people—he calculates them. And whatever he sees in me? I get the feeling he’s already decided what to do with it.

Kang’s rifle lowers in a deliberate arc. He glances at me once—so brief it might have been wishful—and tucks his jaw as he turns.

Two soldiers surge forward, seize my arms, wrench them behind my back. Pain flares, sharp and bright. I don’t struggle. Kang remains at arm’s length, rifle slung, breathing barely audible. There’s dried blood at his jaw, sweat darkening his collarbone. He doesn’t flinch.

The squad is a machine—six bodies, one mind, each movement precise. They lock my arms, snap new black polycarb cuffs so tight my hands go numb instantly. The search begins.

My senses catalog everything: the rough texture of their gloves, the sour tang of underarmor, visors tilted just past my face to deny me any glimpse of emotion. The man on my left pats down my legs, my waist—methodical, almost gentle in his routine disappointment.

I watch Kang. Three meters away, rigid as stone, yet every muscle tensed as though he’s fighting to stay still. His eyes flick to me, then away, and I taste betrayal on my tongue.

“Contraband?” The squad leader’s voice is gravel and thunder.

The searcher hesitates, glances up the chamber. “Nothing but standard issue.”

Petrov’s gaze sharpens. “Check again. Core protocol.”

The man’s hands drift back to my torso, skim under my arms—no pendant to find. He pauses, uncertainty creeping into his motions. Kang’s voice cracks through the hush: “She’s clear. I inspected her myself. Nothing of value.”

An almost imperceptible nod from Petrov, and the hands retreat. They haul me upright and steer me toward the exit. As I move, I glance back. Kang stands alone in the blue-lit hush, shoulders squared, head bowed. His posture is authority incarnate, but the tremor in his stance betrays him. I want to hate him for the distance he’s put between us, but all I feel is the ache of confusion and something like grief.

The chamber’s hum lingers, a dying echo in my bones. But even as they push me into darkness, my fingers tighten around empty air where the RadShield once pulsed. And I know: I’m far from finished.

My body is on autopilot. Each step is a battle between inertia and will, between the urge to run and the certainty that it would only end in a bullet or a broken spine. The corridor is so narrow the squad has to move single-file, with me as the prize at the head of the chain. My boots splash in the water, each step sending out ripples that fracture the blue and make the Spheres strobe in silent laughter.

I don’t look back, not at first. But when we hit the threshold, the compulsion is too strong. I turn, just as Kang steps into the doorway behind us.

Our eyes meet—really meet, this time. There is nothing professional in his stare now. It’s naked, raw, as if the skin of the man has been peeled back to show the animal underneath. I want to say something, anything, but the language is gone, burned away by the pressure in the air and the weight of the Spheres’ hum.

The squad shoves me forward. The corridor tilts upward, tighter and tighter, the pressure in my chest ratcheting until I think my ribs might crack. The men ahead are grunting, fighting to drag me up the slope without tripping on each other’s heels. My feet slip, and one of them yanks me hard enough to spin me sideways, slamming my shoulder into the wall.

I grit my teeth and push back to center.

We burst into a side room, the ceiling so low the tallest soldier has to stoop. The air here is chemical, stinging, shot through with the metallic taste of ozone and burnt insulation. The Spheres are absent, but their hum has followed us—a bass note, insistent and angry.

They shove me into a corner, ringed by the squad. The cuffs dig deeper, hands tingling with the onset of circulation loss. My wrists throb in time with the Spheres. Petrov steps in, boots leaving perfect black circles on the concrete. He studies me the way a man might study a laboratory animal that’s just bitten its own tail off.

“Diana,” he says. Not a question.

I nod.

He gestures at the squad. “Release her hands.” They hesitate, then obey. The cuffs snap open and my arms fall to my sides, useless and bloodless. I flex the fingers, willing them to life.

Petrov leans in. “Where is the prototype?”

I blink, slow. “What?”

He smiles, mirthless. “Don’t play fucking dumb girl.”