Valentina's POV
The secure phone sat on the edge of the coffee table, a matte black slab of plastic that looked innocent enough but felt like a loaded gun.
It was Day Three. The throbbing in my ribs had downgraded from a constant, blinding roar to a sharp, rhythmic ache with every breath.
The bruising on my face had settled into a kaleidoscope of purple and green, stiff but manageable.
I looked, in Helen's bathroom mirror that morning, like a woman who had been in a serious accident.
Which was accurate, if imprecise about the nature of the accident.
I was moving better, navigating the small, sparsely furnished apartment with a practiced caution, but the stillness was wearing on me.
I wasn't built for confinement. I was built for motion, for momentum, and sitting in this off-grid safe house while Helen moved quietly in the kitchen felt like holding my breath underwater.
When the phone buzzed, the sound was jarring in the quiet room
