Chapter 5: Alexei

The clattering noise of the factory is something you get used to after a while, though it never really fades into the background. It's always there, gnawing at your nerves like a persistent itch you can't quite scratch. I've been here for two years now, and the noise is a part of me, just like the ache in my muscles and the constant layer of grime on my skin.

I work the conveyor belts, sorting through the shipments, making sure everything gets packed just right. Sergei's factory isn't exactly a typical sweatshop. It's darker, dirtier, and much more illegal. They don't make shoes or clothes here—they process drugs. All kinds of drugs, from cocaine to heroin, packed up and shipped off to God knows where.

They bring in kids like me because we're cheap labor. Easy to control, easy to replace if something goes wrong. I was sixteen when they brought me here, fresh off the nightmare of watching my parents die.

I'm not the only one here. There are dozens of us, all doing our part to keep the operation running smoothly. We don't talk much; there's not really much to say. We're all just trying to survive, day by day, doing what we're told and staying out of trouble.

I'm minding my own business, sorting through a batch of pills, when I notice something out of the corner of my eye. One of the new kids, bigger than most of us, is just standing there, staring off into space like he's forgotten where he is. He's got to be older than me, maybe nineteen or twenty, with broad shoulders and a scowl that could curdle milk.

I whistle to get his attention, not wanting to attract the guards. "Hey, big guy," I call out quietly, nodding toward the conveyor belt. "You better get to work. They don't like it when you just stand around."

He doesn't even look at me, just keeps staring off into the distance like he's somewhere else entirely.

I grit my teeth. "Come on, man. I've been here long enough to know you don't want to piss them off. You'll get beaten for sure."

Still nothing. The guy just ignores me. It's only a matter of time before the guards notice him slacking off, and then it's going to get ugly.

Right on cue, two men come stomping over, their faces twisted in annoyance. "What's the matter with you, kid?" one of them growls, grabbing the guy by the arm and yanking him around to face them. "You think you're too good to work? You think you're better than everyone else?"

The guy still doesn't say anything, just looks at them with this blank expression, like nothing they do can touch him.

The guard sneers, shoving him back against the wall. "You better speak up, kid, or I'll give you something to cry about."

The guy finally speaks. "What else can you take from me? I've already lost everything."

There's something in his tone that makes me shiver. It's like he's completely given up, like he's already dead inside. The guards don't care, though. They just hear defiance, and that's all the excuse they need.

"Fine," one of them snarls, reaching for his whip. "If that's how you want to play it."

They start beating him, the sharp crack of the whip cutting through the air like a gunshot. He doesn't cry out, doesn't even flinch. He just takes it, standing there like a statue, as if the pain is nothing to him. I've seen plenty of beatings in this place, but this . . . this is something else.

Finally, the guards get bored or frustrated, maybe both. They give him one last lash across the back and then shove him down, spitting curses as they walk away to report to the boss. The guy just picks himself up slowly, limping back to the corner where he'd been standing before, and sits down, his back to the wall, his eyes closed.

The other kids go back to their work, avoiding his gaze. I try to do the same, but I can't stop watching him. There's something about the way he held himself, the way he didn't break under the whip, that makes me curious. He's different from the others . Tougher, maybe. Or just more broken.

When lunchtime rolls around, I grab my tray and head for the benches like I always do. Most kids here eat in silence, too afraid or beaten down to talk. But I can't help myself. I've always been the type to make conversation, to crack a joke, even when there's nothing to laugh about. It's how I keep myself sane in this hellhole.

I spot the big guy sitting by himself, hunched over on one of the benches, his tray untouched in front of him. I don't know what makes me do it, but I walk over and sit down next to him. He doesn't even look up, just stares at his food like it's the most boring thing in the world.

"Hey," I say, taking a bite of the bland, tasteless gruel they call food here. "You okay?"

He doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge my presence. I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. Most people would at least tell me to fuck off, but this guy . . . nothing.

I shrug, not letting it bother me. "Suit yourself. But if you keep this up, they're going to kill you."

Still nothing.

I keep eating, talking more to myself than to him. "Been here for two years now. It's not so bad once you get used to it. You learn how to keep your head down, do your work, and stay out of trouble. That's the trick—just survive until you can't anymore."

He still doesn't say anything, and I start to wonder if he's ever going to.

Over the next few days, I make a point of sitting with the guy during lunch and talking to him even if he doesn't respond. He's quiet, but I can tell he's listening. And slowly, bit by bit, he starts to open up. It's nothing major—just small comments here and there, but it's progress.

One day, as we're sitting at the dining table, I crack a joke about the food. "They call this gruel, but I'm pretty sure it's just flavored water with a side of sawdust."

To my surprise, he actually laughs. It's a small, quiet laugh, but it's genuine, and it makes me grin.

"There it is," I say, leaning back in my chair. "You should smile more often, you know. It suits you."

He shakes his head, but there's a hint of a smile still lingering on his lips. "I'll keep that in mind."

I take another bite of my food, feeling more at ease than I have in a long time. "You know," I say, swallowing the tasteless gruel, "I can tell you for free that there's no way out of this place. Not really. You just survive until you can't anymore."

His smile fades, and he looks at me with a seriousness that makes my chest tighten. "That's where you're wrong. There's always a way out. You just have to be willing to do whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes, huh?" I say, my tone light, though there's a part of me that's starting to wonder if he really means it. "You make it sound so easy."

"It's not," He admits, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. "But it's possible. And that's all that matters . They killed my family . . .. They took everything from me ."

I look at him, surprised by the sudden admission. I can hear the rawness in his voice that cuts through the apathy I've come to expect from everyone here.

"I'm sorry," I say because I don't know what else to say. "That's probably the story of everyone here. But sitting around doing nothing isn't going to bring them back. You've got to keep going, even if it's just to spite them."

He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine for the first time. There's a fire in them, a spark of defiance.

"I'm going to get out of here," he says. "Now or later, I don't care. But I will escape."

I blink, taken aback by the certainty in his tone. "Escape? Are you serious?"

He nods, not a trace of doubt in his expression. "I'm dead serious."

For a moment, I just stare at him, wondering if he's crazy or if he actually believes he can do it. But then I feel a smile tugging at my lips, and before I can stop myself, I'm laughing.

"Good luck with that," I say, still chuckling. "But if you do manage to pull it off, you better take me with you."

He looks at me for a long moment, and then, to my surprise, a small smile creeps onto his face. "Sure. Why not?"

I grin, holding out my hand. "I'm Alexei, by the way."

He hesitates for just a second before taking my hand in a firm grip. "Dmitri."

"Nice to meet you, Dmitri," I say, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with this guy I've just met. "I guess we're in this together now, huh?"

We shake on it, sealing the promise with a firm grip. It's a small gesture, but it feels significant, like something important has just happened.

After that, Dmitri and I become friends, or as close to friends as you can get in a place like this. And as the days go by, I start to believe that maybe, just maybe, Dmitri is right. Maybe there is a way out of this place, a way to escape the nightmare that we've both been trapped in for so long. I start to have hope again. Because in a place like this, hope is the only thing we have left.

And I'm not about to let it slip through my fingers .

***

The sizzle of oil in the pan and the aroma of frying onions fill the small safe house kitchen, creating a rare moment of normalcy amidst the chaos that has become my life. I hum quietly to myself, stirring the onions, watching them turn golden brown. It's a simple task, but I find comfort in it. Cooking reminds me of home, of better days, long before my world fell apart.

I'm flipping the eggs, adding a pinch of salt and pepper, when I hear the door creak open behind me. I glance over my shoulder and nearly drop the spatula.

Irina walks into the kitchen, her gym clothes clinging to her like a second skin. She's covered in sweat, her hair damp and pulled back into a messy ponytail, her cheeks flushed from exertion. She's all lean muscle and determination, and fuck if she isn't the most stunning thing I've seen in a long time.

I swallow hard, forcing my gaze back to the stove, but it's too late. The image of her is already burned into my brain, and my thoughts take a dangerous turn.

"Morning, sunshine," I say, trying to keep my tone casual, though my pulse is hammering in my ears. "Get a good workout in?"

She doesn't answer, just grabs a glass from the counter and fills it with water, downing it in one go. I watch her throat work as she drinks, my eyes tracing the curve of her neck, the way her skin glistens with sweat.

Jesus, I need to get a grip.

"Breakfast?" I offer, holding up the pan with a hopeful smile.

She glances at the food, then at me, her expression unreadable. "I don't have time for that. We need to talk."

I let out an exaggerated sigh, feigning disappointment. "And here I thought we connected yesterday. I guess I'll just have to eat all this by myself, lonely and unloved."

"Grow up, Romanov," she snaps, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, maybe? I like to think so. "We need to figure out how we're going to infiltrate that warehouse."

I shrug, flipping the eggs onto a plate. "I've always got a plan, darling. You just need to trust me."

She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "Trust you? That's rich, coming from the guy who almost got himself killed yesterday."

I roll my eyes, setting the plate down on the table. "Come on, Irina. You've got to admit, I've got a way with these things. And look, I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"Barely," she mutters, brushing past me to grab another glass of water.

Her shoulder bumps mine, and the brief contact sends a jolt through me. I bite back a curse, keeping my face neutral.

"Hey, if I didn't know better," I say, leaning against the counter with a smirk, "I'd think you were worried about me."

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorts, not even bothering to look at me. "I'm just worried you're going to fuck up this mission with your reckless behavior."

I snort, shaking my head. "Reckless? Me? I'm the picture of caution. I always have a plan."

"Sure you do," she says dryly. "And what's the plan for today, then?"

I grin, enjoying the banter. It's one of the few things that feels normal between us. "We scout the place out, find an entry point, and sneak in under the cover of darkness. Easy peasy."

She finally turns to face me, her eyes narrowing. "And what about the guards? The cameras? The alarms? You think you're just going to waltz in there and take whatever you want?"

I shrug again, keeping my tone light. "Pretty much, yeah. It's worked before."

"God, you're infuriating," she hisses, slamming the glass down on the counter. "This isn't some fucking game, Alexei! If we mess this up, we're both dead. Or worse."

The tension in the room ratchets up a notch, and I know I've pushed her too far. But I can't help myself. There's something about getting under her skin that's too tempting to resist.

"Relax, Irina," I say, holding up my hands in mock surrender. "I know what I'm doing. You just need to trust me."

She stares at me for a long moment, her jaw clenched, and I can see the battle going on behind her eyes. She wants to trust me—I can tell—but she's too damn stubborn to admit it.

Finally, she lets out a frustrated growl, throwing her hands up in the air. "You're impossible, you know that?"

I grin, taking a step closer to her, close enough to smell the faint scent of sweat and something else—something distinctly her. "You wouldn't have it any other way."

"Fuck you," she snaps, but there's no real heat in her words.

"Is that an invitation?" I quip, unable to resist.

She glares at me, her eyes blazing with anger. For a moment, I think she might actually hit me, and there's a part of me that almost hopes she does. Anything to break this tension between us, to see what happens when the sparks finally ignite.

But instead, she turns on her heel and storms out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my body buzzing with unspent energy.

I let out a long breath, running a hand through my hair. "Well, that went well," I mutter to myself, turning back to the stove. The food is probably cold by now, but I don't really care. My appetite has vanished, replaced by a gnawing frustration that I can't seem to shake.

I pick at the eggs, but my mind is elsewhere—on her. On the way she looked when she walked in, all raw power and grace, like a warrior fresh from battle. On the way she stared at me, like she was trying to decide whether to kiss or kill me.

I should be focusing on the mission, on the warehouse and whatever the hell Sergei is hiding there. But all I can think about is her. And it's driving me fucking crazy.

The door to the kitchen slams open, and I look up to see Irina standing there, her chest heaving with barely contained rage.

"We need to talk,"

"Already covered that," I say, trying to keep my tone light. "But sure, let's talk. What's on your mind?"

She takes a step closer, and I can see her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "This mission is serious, Alexei. We can't afford to fuck it up."

"I know that," I reply, my voice softening. "I'm not trying to mess this up, Irina. I want to get Sergei just as much as you do."

"Then why do you keep treating this like a joke?" she demands. "Why do you keep pushing my buttons, making light of everything?"

"Because it's how I deal with this shit," I admit, meeting her gaze head-on. "It's how I keep from losing my mind."

She stares at me, and for a moment, I think she might understand. But then her expression hardens, and she shakes her head.

"I don't care how you deal with it, Alexei," she says coldly. "Just don't drag me down with you."

The words hit me harder than I expected, and for a second, I'm at a loss for what to say. But then the anger flares up, and I can't hold it back.

"You think I'm dragging you down?" I snap, stepping closer to her, feeling the heat of her body against mine. "You think you're the only one who's got something to lose here? Newsflash, Irina, I've got just as much riding on this as you do."

"Then start acting like it!" she fires back, sharp as a whip. "Stop with the fucking jokes, and start taking this seriously!"

"I take this seriously!" I shout, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "But I'm not going to stop being who I am just because you can't handle it!"

She flinches at that, and I immediately regret the words. But it's too late. The damage is done.

"You know what?" she says, suddenly quiet and almost defeated. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't handle it."

The silence that follows is deafening. I don't know what to say, how to fix this.

"Irina," I start, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand.

"Save it," she mutters, turning away from me. "I'm done talking."