Chapter 5: Three Days

The first forty-eight hours were a blur of rain and silence.

Alexei didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He didn’t speak. The chain was the only thing that moved soft clinks every time he shifted from his side to his back, every time he rolled onto his stomach to stare at the blood-streaked window. The cuts Luca had made on the glass were still there, faint red lines that the rain had washed clean but not erased. Alexei could see them in the reflection when he turned his head. Six parallel scars. Like a map he hadn’t asked for.

His body was a warzone of old and new pain. The graze on his thigh had swollen, the bullet wound pulsing with every heartbeat. His ribs felt cracked again where Luca had bumped him into the glass. His face nose, lips, the cut on his temple from the first night hadn’t healed right. The cuts on his back from the glass were deeper than he liked. Every breath pulled at them. Every swallow tasted like copper.

He counted the hours the only way he knew how.

One. Two. Three.

On the second morning, the door opened at 6:13 a.m. by the clock on the nightstand. Luca stepped in wearing the same black slacks and white shirt from yesterday, sleeves rolled up again. The bruise on his temple was a perfect purple now, but he didn’t touch it. His storm-grey eyes scanned the room once, taking in the blood on the floor, the empty duffel bag, the way the chain had worn a groove into the marble where Alexei had paced the night before.

“Ghost,” Luca said. Flat. No warmth. Just the word like it tasted bad.

Alexei was on his feet before the door finished closing. The chain rattled as he moved. He didn’t speak. He just looked at Luca, green eyes flat, and waited.

Luca crossed the room in three strides and unlocked the cuffs. No rough handling. Just the soft click and the chain sliding free. Alexei’s wrists burned where the leather had left marks. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the fresh tug in the cuts on his back, and sat on the edge of the bed. His legs were shaky. The graze on his thigh throbbed like it wanted to open up again.

Luca walked to the closet and pulled out the black toolkit. He set it on the nightstand, then opened the first drawer in the nightstand. Inside were plastic bottles—water, pills, bandages. He took out a roll of gauze and a tube of ointment. The smell was sharp, medical, not like the cheap cologne Luca usually wore.

“Hold still.”

Alexei didn’t. He jerked away when Luca reached for his thigh. The bigger man caught his wrist, not gentle, but not violent either. Just enough pressure to remind him who was in charge.

“You’re not running today,” Luca said. “Not until I say.”

He unbuttoned Alexei’s jeans with one hand while the other held his wrist. Alexei’s breath hitched. He hated how his body still reacted to the touch hot, traitorous. Luca pulled the jeans down, then the boxers underneath. The graze was ugly. Red and angry, edges already swelling, a thin line of dried blood where the bullet had punched through.

Luca didn’t speak. He just cleaned it. The gauze was cold. The ointment smelled like alcohol and antiseptic. He worked in silence, dabbing, spreading, wrapping. Every few seconds his thumb brushed the skin around the wound, checking the edges. Alexei’s jaw was locked so tight it ached. He stared at the ceiling instead of looking down.

When Luca finished, he stepped back. The bandage was thick but clean. Alexei felt the difference immediately less fire, more dull ache. His ribs still cracked when he breathed. His face felt puffy. The cuts on his back pulled when he moved.

Luca locked the cuffs again. The chain was the same length as before. He tested it once, then walked to the window and looked out at the rain. The city was still gray, still bleeding.

“Three days,” he said quietly. “But this time the window’s your witness. I want you to see how much of you is left when I come back tonight.”

He turned off the lights. The room went dark except for the city glow through the glass. Alexei lay on his side, chain clinking softly with every breath, and stared at the bloody streaks on the window. The cuts Luca had made were still there. Faint red lines. A map. He could feel the pain in his back like it was fresh. His thigh burned under the new bandage. His face throbbed.

He laughed once, low and broken, the sound lost in the dark.

Tomorrow would be worse.

But right now, in the dark and the rain and the blood on the glass, he was still here.

And the war had just found its new face.

Luca would come back.

He always did.

And when he did, Alexei would be ready.