The moment the blade sinks in, he’s already moving, ripping it out and throwing it end-over-end through the air at the creeping soldier who’s decided I’m the better target.
The man sees it at the last second and starts to duck, but it still slices open his cheek. He roars in pain as blood sprays on Tamara’s white couch.
Artem moves towards me to intervene, but his path is blocked by the second soldier, who lunges at him.
The last thing I see is Artem being thrown against a thin wooden console table before rough hands latch onto my shoulders and I’m being lifted into the air.
That’s when I remind myself that I have a weapon in hand.
I can protect my f*****g self.
Kicking into survival mode, I bring the blade down blindly. It makes sickening, squelching contact, and a moment later, the
