Page 116 of Stolen Empire
"We’ll find her."
I stare at the blinking dot on the screen.
All I can do now is pray that when we find her, she’s still breathing.
I hope this was all part of her play, that she’s okay and I’m panicking over nothing.
But deep down, I know better.
Something went wrong in that warehouse.
Now all I can do is wait and hope I haven’t already lost her.
19
KATYA
They drag me down a narrow hallway as I stumble to keep pace.
My wrists are raw from the rope, my face throbs where they hit me.
Blood has dried on my cheek, pulling the skin when I move my jaw, and the two men holding my arms don't speak.
They haul me forward, bruising my arms with their grip.
We stop at a door.
One of them unlocks it and shoves me inside.
I catch myself on the edge of a desk before I fall.
The room is warmer, lit by a lamp instead of the bare bulb of the other room.
It smells faintly of coffee which makes my mouth water.
Books line one wall, and a radiator ticks softly near the door.
There’s still no window, but the heat makes my skin prickle.
It feels almost too normal after the freezing cage of a room they kept me in.
I remember the damp air, the concrete walls slick with moisture.
The warmth here feels wrong, as if comfort itself is a threat.
A chair sits across from the desk and they push me into it.
The older man from before enters—the one who cut my cheek.
He’s carrying the same folder thick with papers that he tried to force me to understand the last time he confronted me.
He sets it on the table and sits across from me slowly.
The two younger men stand behind me, blocking the door.
“Ekaterina Morozova,” he says again, opening the worn folder.
His tone carries the same accusation too, as if I'm supposed to just have a lightning moment and remember a past I've never lived.
