The scent of pine needles and industrial-strength cleaning fluid still permeated the air, a phantom reminder of the violence Vladimir and I had shared just hours ago in the gym. He had left immediately afterward, plunging back into the black hole of war logistics. I, however, was left with a new kind of hunger: the hunger for knowledge.
I sat alone in the library again, not for comfort this time, but for the privacy afforded by its security protocols. Vladimir had given me his trust, but he had withheld the map. And without the map, I was just blindly following his commands, a liability waiting to happen.
He asked for my trust. I gave it to him. I trust his intention to protect me. But I do not trust the history that made me valuable. Irina said there was a debt, a balance. My father, Gi
