Page 14 of Tracking Shadows

I hesitate, my hands stilling on his skin. “All the time,” I admit before I can stop myself. It’s the first time I’ve spoken since he started his story, and the words come out rough, like they’ve been dragged from somewhere deep inside.

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for the first time, I see something in his eyes that I recognize: pain. The kind that doesn’t go away, no matter how much time passes.

“Yeah,” he says softly, his voice carrying a weight that matches my own. “Me too.”

I finish the bandage, tying it off with a tight knot. I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to respond to the emotions swirling in the room, so I keep it simple: “You’re done.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine.

I stand, wiping my hands on a towel, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing.

“You should get some rest,” I say, turning away from him. “You need to heal.”

He doesn’t argue, just nods. I can tell he’s drained, not just physically but emotionally. He’s said more than he intended, I think, and it’s taken a toll on him.

I move to the small, rickety bed in the corner of the room and pull back the worn blanket. “Lie down,” I tell him, keeping my voice neutral.

He does as I say, wincing as he lowers himself onto the bed. He’s trying to be tough, but I can see the pain etched into his features. I don’t know why it bothers me so much, seeing him like this. I should be used to it; I should be used to seeing people hurt, seeing them vulnerable—but with him, it’s different.

“Do you want to know something funny?” he slurs with fatigue as he settles onto the mattress.

I don’t answer, just look at him, waiting.

“When I first saw you,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I thought you were the scariest person I’d ever met.”

I blink, surprised by the admission. “Good,” I say, my tone a bit sharper than I intended.

“But now,” he continues, his eyes half-closed as sleep starts to claim him, “I think you might be . . ..”

He doesn't complete his statement, and I watch his eyes drift shut and breath even out as sleep takes over.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring down at him. His brow is relaxed, and the hard lines around his mouth have softened. With his lashes brushing against his cheeks and his lips slightly parted, he looks almost boyish. So peaceful, so . . . innocent. I don’t know what to make of it, don’t know what to make of him.

I pull the blanket up over his chest, making sure he’s covered. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like the right thing to do.

I’ve always been alone. It’s safer that way. No attachments, no complications, no one to worry about but myself. But with Alexei . . . it’s different. I can feel him starting to get under my skin. And that terrifies me.

I can’t afford to let anyone in. Not now, not ever. There’s too much at stake, too much that could go wrong. I’ve seen what happens when you let yourself care about someone, and I’m not willing to risk that again.

I turn away, moving to the small, cracked window on the other side of the room. The night is dark and still. I lean against the wall, staring out into the darkness, trying to get my emotions under control.

I glance back at him, sleeping soundly on the bed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He looks so vulnerable, so . . . human. It’s not the first time that thought has crossedmy mind tonight, and that’s what unsettles me. I’m not used to seeing him or anyone in that light. It’s dangerous, and I know it.

Right now, I need to stay strong, stay focused. Because in this world, letting your guard down can be fatal. And I’m not ready to risk everything I’ve worked for.

Not yet. Not ever

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.