CHAPTER 12

Vera typed the message twice before sending it.

One wrong word could ruin everything.

Midnight. Cafe. Be there.

She deleted the thread immediately, slid the phone back into her pocket, and stared at the wall until her pulse slowed. Her ribs still hurt when she breathed too deeply. She ignored it. Pain was manageable. What followed pain was not.

The café they chose was small and almost forgotten, tucked between a closed bookstore and a laundromat that never seemed open. The lights inside were dim, yellow, safe-looking. Lies always looked safe at first.

She arrived early. Sat where she could see the door. Her back to the wall. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so she curled them into fists and pressed them against her thighs until her nails bit into skin.

She counted exits. One door. A narrow hallway that might lead to a back exit—or a dead end. The windows were too clear. Too exposed.

Midnight passed.

Then the door opened.

Vera’s breath caught so hard it hurt.

“Vera…”

The voice alone almost broke her.

She looked up and there Lina was—older, sharper around the eyes, the same posture of someone who never fully relaxed. Someone who listened even when nothing was being said.

“Lina,” Vera whispered as she slid into the seat across from her.

For a second, neither of them spoke. They just stared. Measuring. Confirming. Making sure the other was real.

Lina’s gaze moved fast—Vera’s face, her hands, the way she held herself too still. Her jaw tightened.

“They’re close,” Vera said quietly. No buildup. No easing into it. “Too close.”

Lina didn’t ask how she knew. Didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to.

“I felt it,” Lina said. “The shift. The way the air changes right before things go bad.”

Vera swallowed. “Then you know.”

Lina nodded once. Slow. Heavy. “We don’t have time.”

“No,” Vera said. “We don’t.”

For a moment, the café noise filled the space between them—cups clinking, low voices, laughter that felt obscene. The world was still moving. That was the worst part. It always moved like nothing was wrong.

“I can’t go back,” Vera said suddenly, the words tearing out of her. “I won’t. I’d rather die than go back. I mean that.”

Lina’s hand reached across the table and closed over hers. Warm. Familiar. Grounding.

“You won’t,” Lina said. “Not while I’m breathing.”

Vera shook her head. “You don’t understand. I did everything right. I disappeared. I stayed quiet. I followed every rule they burned into me and still—”Her voice dropped. “Still they came.”

Lina’s grip tightened. “How bad did they hurt you?”

Vera didn’t answer right away.

“Bad enough,” she said finally. “Bad enough that I know what comes next if they take me.”

Lina’s eyes hardened. Not with fear—with memory.

“Then we leave,” she said. “Tonight if we have to.”

“We can’t pack,” Vera said. “No patterns. No goodbyes. No one can know where we’re going.”

“Good,” Lina replied. “Those things get people killed.”

Vera stared at her. “You’ve thought about this.”

Lina let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “I never stopped thinking about it. You think I ever felt safe after we ran? I’ve been waiting for this message.”

That should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

The fear didn’t lift. It sank deeper, like something alive.

Vera pulled her hand back slowly “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If it goes wrong,” Vera said, her voice barely there, “you don’t try to save me. You run. You don’t hesitate. You don’t look back.”

Lina’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something sadder. “You always talk like you’re already gone.”

“Promise me.”

Lina met her eyes. Held them. “I promise.”

They sat in silence after that, both listening too closely to every sound—the door, footsteps, the scrape of a chair. Every second felt borrowed.

“We’ll meet tomorrow,” Lina said at last. “I’ll plan the route. Safe places. No names.”

Vera nodded. “Tomorrow.”

They stood together, careful not to touch. As they moved toward the door, Lina paused.

“Vera.”

“Yes?”

“You did the right thing,” she said. “Running. Coming back to me. All of it.”

Vera didn’t answer.

Outside, the night felt thinner. Like it could tear.

She walked away without looking back—because some habits were learned the hard way.