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I know the rhythms of this house now. The shift changes, the moments when guards relax just slightly when routines dull vigilance into habit. I know which staff avoid eye contact andwhich linger just long enough to be spoken to. I know how long it takes for someone to respond when I need something.

If Sasha’s absence has taught me anything, it’s that time here does not stand still just because I do. Whatever is happening beyond these walls will continue with or without me. When he returns, and he will return, there is no mistake about that, I cannot still be standing in the same place hoping for a different outcome.

Knowledge is leverage, and I have more of it than I realized.

Lev’sphone rings sometime after lunch.

The sound is sharp and abrupt, slicing through the quiet hum of the library. Lev stiffens immediately, his posture snapping straighter as if the vibration itself has issued a command. He turns slightly away from me, lowering his voice as he answers with the same rigid professionalism he applies to everything else.

“Yes. Understood. I’ll relay that.” A pause. “Is there a specific time they want to meet?”

Perfect.

I don’t hesitate.

My chair barely makes a sound as I slip from it, the legs lifting just enough to avoid scraping against the polished floor. My heart hammers violently against my ribs, each beat loud in my ears, but I keep my breathing slow and controlled.

Panic is useless here.

Panic makes mistakes.

I move casually at first, as if I’ve simply grown restless and decided to browse the other aisle. My fingers trail along the spines of books I’ve already memorized the titles of, Russian history, political theory, military strategy, rare first editions Sasha probably hasn’t touched since they were first placed on these shelves.

I’ve spent hours in this place over the past weeks, long enough that my presence here no longer raises suspicion.

The library is enormous, its shelves rising two stories high, ladders mounted on polished rails, the air perpetually smelling of old paper and leather. It is designed to impress, to intimidate and remind anyone standing inside it of how much knowledge and therefore power rests within these walls.

But power, like everything else in this world, has cracks.

I slip between the taller shelves toward the back where the light grows dimmer and the books older and less frequently disturbed. My footsteps are swallowed by the thick rugs lining the aisles that look like they haven’t been vacuumed in decades.

I don’t look back, though I don’t need to. Lev’s voice is still carried through the aisles, low and focused behind me as his attention is fully claimed by whoever is on the other end of the line.

In the weeks I’ve been trapped stewing, I’ve learned something important. Sasha’s house, while built on layers of control, does not have absolute oversight. The grand halls and main corridors are meticulously monitored, sure, but the spaces meant for staff and the veins that keep the place functioning are treated as afterthoughts.

I reach the final shelf and slow, pretending to examine a thin, dust-coated volume before looking over my shoulder. My fingers slide along the wood paneling behind it until they find the slight indentation I discovered purely by accident one sleepless night. A seam so fine, it’s nearly invisible unless you know exactly where to press.

When I do, the hidden door gives way with a soft click. It makes no sound as it's pushed open, dust particles peppering the air around me. I slip inside without hesitation, pulling it closed behind me just as quietly.

The servants’ hallway is narrow and dim, lit by low, utilitarian bulbs spaced far apart. The walls here are plain, the floors worn smooth by decades of hurried footsteps coming and going. This part of the estate lacks the polish and grandeur of the main halls but it hums with a different kind of life, unseen practical efficiency.

My pulse thrums as I pause to listen, but there’s nothing outside of my own pounding heart. I allow myself one small breath of relief before moving forward.

While I can’t be certain there aren’t cameras lining these hallways that stretch the entire length of the estate, I highly doubt they’re being closely monitored. These corridors were never meant for scrutiny. They exist to serve, not to be seen, arteries hidden beneath the skin of a place built to impress outsiders and intimidate enemies.

Unless given a reason to, more eyes would remain fixed on the main floors where threats are expected to arrive dressed as guests or adversaries bold enough to walk through the front door. That is where Sasha’s attention would be focused. Not here.

I move quickly, keeping close to the wall and counting my steps without meaning to. The air smells faintly of musk and old stone. My pulse thuds in my ears, but beneath the fear, there’s something steadier now, resolve sharpening with every step.

This is the flaw in Sasha’s world.

He rules through spectacle and dominance, through the deliberate placement of power where it will be felt most strongly. But power, when it becomes accustomed to obedience, grows blind to the small things. It forgets to watch the spaces and people it deems insignificant.

I intend to prove just how dangerous that oversight can be.

At the end of the corridor, the hallway splits. One direction leads deeper into the estate’s operational spine and the other angles upward, most likely to the upper floors. I pause only long enough to listen again and make sure I’m still alone, then I choose my path.

I head upward.