Her father lay on his deathbed. Without access to more medicine, his illness had finally taken him during the night. His health had been spiraling downward for weeks, and Sofia had spent hours by his side, holding his hand, as though her touch alone could keep him tethered to the world. But during the night, he had let go—of her hand and of his life. His soul had departed, and Sofia tried to comfort herself with the thought that he was in a better place now. With Mom. With Stefan.
She stood in the doorway, staring at his lifeless body on the bed, her chest tightening with every passing second. She started crying again, her legs giving out as she collapsed into a chair. The tears came in torrents, consuming her until it felt like time itself had stopped.
A deep, mechanical rumble interrupted her grief. It was the unmistakable growl of a heavy engine outside. Wiping her eyes, Sofia got up and peeked through the living room curtains.
An army truck was parked near the “bunker.” A few soldiers stood nearby, talking and gesturing, while one of them unloaded boxes from the truck and carried them inside. Despite how scummy she thought those soldiers were, at least they were keeping the madmen away for now. She had heard that the army had completely lost Malmö, and the soldiers stationed here seemed like a mix of the battle-hardened and the unprepared. Some looked as though they’d been through hell; others, with oversized jackets and awkward grips on their weapons, looked like they didn’t even belong.
Sofia hiccupped from all the crying and wandered into the kitchen. She needed tea. She was out of food, but tea she had in abundance. Her father had always kept a stockpile of it, much to her mother’s annoyance. She used to complain about every cupboard being stuffed with fresh tea the family had sent over from Bosnia. The memory brought a bittersweet smile to Sofia’s face before the tears returned, rolling down her cheeks in hot streams.
She glanced at the family photos on the wall. Her mother’s smile. Stefan, frozen in time. Her father, younger and healthier. She wondered what she was supposed to do now.
Eventually, she curled up on the sofa and cried herself to sleep.
She was jolted awake by the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing through the stillness of the early morning.
“Not again,” Sofia muttered, sitting up and wiping her face.
The soldiers were shooting again, God only knew at what. Yesterday, it had been more gunfire, and before that, rumors swirled that they had killed Danes who had arrived by boat, refugees desperate for safety. Now it sounded like another bloodbath was unfolding.
Sofia had had enough.
Her anger boiled over, a raw, seething fury that left no room for fear or reason. She wasn’t going to sit there and listen to it anymore. She would go out there and scream at them, tell them to stop wasting their bullets on the desperate and save them for the lunatics. She didn’t care what happened to her anymore—something had to give, and if she didn’t let out this storm inside her, she might explode.
She shoved on her crocs, slammed the door behind her, and stormed down the street. Her thin T-shirt and tracksuit pants did nothing against the cold morning air, but she barely noticed. Her focus was on the figures by the bunker.
As she got closer, her rage spilled out.
“YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO?” she shouted, her voice trembling but defiant. “WHY DON’T YOU TAKE YOUR GUNS AND YOUR BALLS TO MALMÖ AND TRY TO RETAKE THAT CITY, YOU INCOMPETENT SONS OF—”
The response was immediate and violent.
The machine gun roared to life, spitting fire and death in her direction.
Sofia’s heart stopped as she threw herself to the ground, rolling behind a parked Volvo XC90 just in time. The heavy rattle of gunfire tore through the air, shattering windows and ripping through the car and the house behind her. The sound was deafening, the bullets cracking the air above her head and ringing in her ears.
For ten seconds, the world was nothing but chaos and noise.
When the gunfire finally ceased, Sofia lay frozen on the pavement, her body trembling as she tried to catch her breath. She had been reckless—stupid even—but she hadn’t expected them to shoot at her.
Before she could think of an escape plan, an explosion shook the street.
The blast was followed by more gunfire—closer this time, but not aimed at her. The machine gun nest had stopped firing.
Mustered by sheer adrenaline, Sofia peeked around the side of the car. Two figures were moving down the hill, their silhouettes outlined against the faint light of dawn. One was running toward the bunker while the other fired precise, controlled bursts at the nest.
Her heart pounded as she ducked back behind the car.
Despite her earlier death wish, Sofia suddenly realized she didn’t want to die—not like this, not caught in the crossfire of someone else’s battle. The ground beneath her was damp and cold, and the chill seeped into her skin, making her shiver.
She peeked again as she heard someone running.
One of the soldiers from the bunker was sprinting across the street, heading in her direction. He was young, maybe barely older than her. His oversized jacket flapped awkwardly as he ran, and his rifle was clutched tight in his hands.
She froze, her breath caught in her throat.
Halfway across the street, the soldier jerked suddenly and collapsed face-first onto the pavement.
Sofia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Blood poured from the young man’s chest, pooling beneath him in a growing crimson stain. He gagged and choked, clawing at his throat as though trying to clear an obstruction.
His eyes locked with hers, wide with panic and terror.
Sofia watched in horror, unable to look away. The soldier tried to push himself up, his movements weak and uncoordinated, but a fluorescent tracer round tore through him, punching a hole in his chest and shattering the pavement behind him.
He fell still, his body slumping lifelessly against the street.
The sound of his final, desperate breaths echoed in her ears, bone-chilling and unforgettable.
More gunfire erupted from the bunker, along with shouts and screams. The chaos seemed to come from every direction.
Sofia pressed herself harder against the car, her heart hammering as the battle raged on. She had wanted to scream at them, to vent her anger and grief, but now, faced with the sheer violence unfolding around her, she felt small and powerless.
She peeked again, trembling. One of the figures from the hill was closer now, his rifle aimed at the bunker. He moved with purpose, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the soft glow of dawn. Another man followed behind him, their movements coordinated and efficient.
The bunker exploded.
The force of the blast shook the ground, and debris rained down across the street. Both figures flinched but pressed forward.
One of them turned and started moving toward her.
Sofia froze, panic rising like a wave.
What should she do? If she ran, they might shoot. If she screamed, they might see her as a threat. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. All she could do was hope that they wouldn’t hurt her.
The sound of boots on pavement grew louder.
The man rounded the corner of the car, his rifle raised.
Their eyes met.
He didn’t look like he was from around here—definitely not Swedish. Sofia might have thought about it more if she wasn’t so consumed by the barrel of his rifle pointed squarely at her.
Then, by some miracle, he lowered it.
“Should I expect anyone else?” he asked in English, his voice calm but strained.
For a moment, she was too stunned to process the question. Why was he speaking in English? Maybe he had come from mainland Europe by boat, and the soldiers had fired on him? Her voice quivered as she stammered, “No!”
The man scanned the street, his eyes sharp and searching. Then, as if the tension holding him upright gave out, he collapsed next to her.
Sofia blinked, her mind racing to piece together what had just happened. She turned her head to see the second figure approaching—the younger one. He had a Danish flag stitched onto his shoulder and was wearing a uniform. He looked barely older than her.
She instinctively raised her hands, not wanting to give any reason for alarm.
“Anyone else we should worry about? Any more soldiers?” he barked in a thick Danish accent, his voice loud and clipped, the words tumbling out with that peculiar potato-in-the-throat tone she recognized.
It took her a moment to realize what he was asking. “No,” she answered in Swedish, shaking her head quickly. “They only come to change guard every two days. The ones you just killed—they arrived this morning. I don’t know if they have radios.”
The Dane didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees next to the first man, quickly checking his friend’s extremities and neck for signs of bleeding. Sofia watched as he spun him onto his back and leaned in to check his breathing.
“I need to put my friend somewhere safe,” the Dane said, glancing up at her with desperation in his eyes. “He has a concussion, I think. He got hit in the head by a lunatic a while ago. Please, is there anywhere we can lay low for a few hours?”
In any other context, Sofia might have laughed at his accent, but the chaos of the situation left her too rattled for humor. She was still shaking from the gunfire. Months of surviving through turmoil, but she had never been shot at before.
She looked down at the unconscious man. His face was swollen, his jaw bruised and misshapen. He looked bad—terrible even. The Dane’s voice broke through her thoughts again, pleading. He was desperate, and she couldn’t say no.
“Let’s pick him up and follow me,” she said, trying to steady her voice.
“Tak, mange tak,” the Dane replied, his relief palpable.
“What’s your name? You’re Danish, right?” she asked, keeping her hands on her knees to stop them from shaking.
“Jonathan. Yeah, I am. This guy is Polish, I think,” he said, glancing back at his unconscious friend. “Przemek, you awake? Przemek, come on, she’ll bring us somewhere safe. Try to stand up—it’s not far,” Jonathan pleaded.
Przemek didn’t respond. His face was swollen badly, and Sofia could see his breathing was labored.
“Ah, man, he looks fucked up. His face is swelling up,” Jonathan muttered, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
“It’s definitely a concussion,” Sofia said, her voice steadier now. “He was hit in the jaw, right? It looks like it. He’s lucky it wasn’t the skull—judging by the size of that wound, he wouldn’t have survived that.”
Jonathan nodded grimly.
With Przemek still unresponsive, the two of them carefully hoisted him up, each taking one of his shoulders. He groaned softly, his head lolling, but he was still at least semi-conscious.
“What’s your name?” Jonathan asked as they started moving.
“Sofia,” she replied. “I’m staying right down this street. Let’s hurry up before we draw any unwanted attention.”
The three of them moved awkwardly, Przemek’s weight forcing Sofia and Jonathan to lean into him as they shuffled toward her house. His boots dragged on the ground, and though his eyes fluttered open occasionally, he was far from coherent.
When they reached her door, Sofia fumbled with her keys, glancing nervously over her shoulder as if expecting more soldiers or worse. Finally, the lock clicked, and she pushed the door open.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside as Jonathan maneuvered Przemek through the threshold.
Jonathan paused just inside, scanning the small living room, his eyes darting to every corner before nodding in approval. He led Przemek to the sofa and gently lowered him onto it.
Sofia closed the door and locked it behind them.
For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of their heavy breathing.
Przemek groaned again, his hand twitching as he muttered something unintelligible.
Jonathan dropped to his knees beside him, brushing the sweat-soaked hair back from his friend’s forehead. “Stay with me, buddy,” he said softly.
Sofia stood by the door, still trying to process everything that had happened.
Her house had gone from silent and empty to sheltering two strangers in a matter of minutes. She didn’t know what she had just invited in, but for some reason, she didn’t regret it.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Not yet, at least.
Jonathan laid Przemek gently on the sofa, glancing at Sofia with a mixture of urgency and distrust.
“I trust you with him for a few minutes. I’m gonna go grab some equipment we might’ve left. J-Just don’t try anything dumb, okay?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying how much he cared about his companion, even as his words came out gruff.
Sofia blinked, taken aback by the remark, but she could see the concern in his eyes. This wasn’t anger—this was desperation. She nodded, watching as he bolted back out the door, his rifle still in hand.
Left alone, she turned her attention to Przemek. His face was swollen, but she couldn’t see any active bleeding. That didn’t mean there wasn’t damage inside, though. She hesitated, unsure of what she should do, before deciding to make him as comfortable as possible.
Carefully, she reached for his vest, fumbling with the Velcro fastenings on the sides and shoulders. Once she managed to remove it, she gently lifted his combat shirt, inspecting his torso. Bruises in varying shades of purple and yellow sprawled across his skin like a chaotic map of pain, but there was no bleeding.
She exhaled in relief.
Przemek groaned softly, his head twitching slightly to the side, but he remained unconscious. Sofia slipped off his boots, setting them neatly beside the sofa, then left the room briefly to fetch a vat of water and a clean rag. When she returned, she sat next to him, carefully dabbing at the dirt and sweat on his face.
Meanwhile, Jonathan sprinted outside, his rifle clutched tightly in his hands. His earlier threat to Sofia lingered in his mind, and guilt gnawed at him. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so harsh—she was only trying to help—but there was no time to dwell on it. He had bigger priorities.
First, he had to confirm the threat was eliminated.
He ran to the body in the middle of the street. Blood had pooled beneath the man, spreading in a dark, ominous circle that left little doubt about his fate. Jonathan skipped him and made a beeline for the machine gun nest.
Approaching the entrance, he raised his rifle, pointing it at the shadowy interior as he stepped cautiously closer. His boot connected with one of the bodies, and it didn’t react. Jonathan nudged it again, harder this time, then kicked the second figure sprawled nearby.
Yeah, they were dead.
The first man had a hole right below where his eye had been, the wound raw and dark. The second was missing his lower jaw entirely, his face a grotesque mask of blood and torn flesh. Both had been riddled with bullets, their uniforms soaked through with crimson.
Jonathan exhaled shakily, stepping back.
He turned and ran back up the hill to retrieve their gear, his eyes scanning the area for any movement. Despite the chaos that had unfolded mere minutes ago, the dawn was serene, the early light casting long shadows across the ground. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of seawater.
From his vantage point, he could see the quiet suburb below and the empty roads leading into it. There were no signs of reinforcements or anyone who might have heard the gunfire.
Satisfied, Jonathan dropped to his knees and opened his backpack, retrieving a small metal box. He flipped it open, revealing several small bags of white powder. His fingers trembled as he pulled out the tiny spoon tucked inside.
“Thank God this stayed dry,” he muttered to himself.
He scooped a small amount and snorted it, wincing as the bitter powder burned his nostrils and dripped down the back of his throat. The effect was immediate—his senses sharpened, his fatigue vanished, and his body buzzed with an almost unbearable energy.
Jonathan stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and grabbing Przemek’s gear with his other hand. The combined weight was crushing, but in his current state, he barely noticed. He jogged back down the hill, his steps light and almost euphoric.
By the time he reached the house, he had forced himself to calm down, knowing he couldn’t afford to alarm Sofia—or worse, Przemek, if he woke up. Jonathan nodded at Sofia as he entered, dropping the backpacks in the kitchen.
She glanced up from Przemek, her expression shifting from worry to irritation.
Jonathan ignored her for the moment, grabbing an empty garbage bag and a worn sports bag from a corner. Without another word, he marched back outside, his rifle slung across his chest and the garbage bag clutched in one hand.
Jonathan approached the body lying in the street, the one Przemek had shot earlier. A Somali, by the looks of him. The man had a prominent forehead, and his jacket—far too large for his frame—hung awkwardly off him like a makeshift poncho. Jonathan crouched down, flipping the jacket open to inspect him. Beneath it, he wore nothing but a plain, stained T-shirt.
The sight painted a grim picture of these Swedish draftees. They looked poorly equipped, almost as if they’d been thrown into the fray with whatever was left in a surplus warehouse. Jonathan checked the man’s hands and pockets but found no weapon—maybe it had been left back in the nest.
Jonathan turned his attention to the machine gun nest again, forcing himself to steel his nerves as he stepped inside. The smell hit him like a wall—blood, thick and metallic, mingling with the damp air of the early morning. The odor clung to the walls, the sandbags, and the floor like an oppressive cloud.
Dragging one of the bodies out, Jonathan saw a red blob of viscera slide from the man’s shattered face and land with a wet thud on the grass. He grimaced, refusing to let himself dwell on it, and returned to haul the second body. As he bent down, he could’ve sworn he saw the corpse twitch.
Jonathan froze.
His breath caught in his throat, and he instinctively raised his rifle. He stared at the lifeless form, paranoia seeping into his thoughts. “It’s just the coke,” he muttered to himself, trying to calm his pounding heart. “You’re jumping at nothing.”
Still, his hands trembled as he checked the bodies outside. The first was the Somali. The second—a pale, sharp-featured Swede. Neither of them mattered now; they were dead, and their affiliations, whether to God, country, or something else, had died with them. But as he inspected them further, something caught his attention.
Their eyes. Or rather, what surrounded them.
Both bodies had black paint smeared over their eyes, like crude, makeshift blindfolds. Jonathan frowned, confused. What was this? He checked the other two bodies nearby. Same thing. Each man had the same strange black bands painted across their faces.
It was unnerving.
Were they trying to mimic the lunatics, the ones stalking the countryside? Or was this something else? A ritual? A cult? Jonathan’s mind raced as he tried to piece it together, but he shook his head. There was no time to dwell on this.
He searched their bodies methodically. No dog tags. One of them wore a cold-war-era vest, old but serviceable. Jonathan unfastened it, finding a few large magazines designed for an AK4. He stepped back into the nest and grabbed the rifle itself—a Swedish AK4, a heavy, clunky battle rifle chambered in 7.62 NATO.
Jonathan had heard stories about these rifles, passed down by veterans and armchair tacticians alike. They said a well-placed shot could take an arm clean off. He didn’t know if it was true, but he was grateful the draftees hadn’t tested that theory on him.
He unloaded the AK4, tossing its magazine into the garbage bag he’d brought. Then, he gathered all the ammo he could scavenge—five magazines, give or take.
Next, he turned his attention to the machine gun that had nearly ended him and Przemek earlier. It was an FN MAG, a beast of a weapon—a Swedish-made version of the legendary Belgian design. The gun was built to shred platoons of Soviet infantry or anything else unfortunate enough to wander into its path.
Jonathan traced his fingers along its massive frame, marveling at the sheer weight of it—11 kilos unloaded, and that wasn’t counting the belts of ammunition. Whoever had been manning it was lucky to get off even a few bursts without breaking under the weight of logistics. Jonathan scooped up all the belt-fed ammunition he could find, stuffing it into his sports bag until it was practically bursting.
In his search, he uncovered a few more supplies: a first-aid kit, some packets of field rations, a bottle of unopened wine, and a pristine Swedish cold-weather vest still sealed in its plastic wrap. A good find, he thought.
As he stood to leave, he heard a noise—a faint grunt. He spun around so quickly that pain lanced through his neck, his rifle snapping up instinctively.
Seagulls. Just a couple of birds arguing over scraps in the distance.
Jonathan exhaled sharply, realizing how jumpy he’d become. This wasn’t good. The coke wasn’t helping either, amplifying every sound, every shadow. He slung the FN MAG over his shoulder, the weight threatening to crush him, and grabbed the sports bag in one hand and the garbage bag in the other.
The combined weight made his hips ache, his back scream in protest, but he pressed on. “Thank God for the powder,” he muttered under his breath. Without it, he doubted he could keep going. If reinforcements showed up now, he’d need every ounce of strength and focus he could muster.
Jonathan trudged back toward the house, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he finally reached the kitchen, he dropped the bags and machine gun onto the floor with a loud thud.
Sofia looked up from tending to Przemek, her eyes narrowing at the sight of him.
Jonathan gave her a brief nod, avoiding her gaze. “Got what I needed,” he muttered. Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed back outside.
He wasn’t done yet.
Back at the machine gun nest, Jonathan couldn’t help but pause and look at the men sprawled lifeless on the grass. Their bodies lay still, faces frozen in the last expressions they’d ever make. Who had he killed, he wondered? Did it even matter? Surely, he’d hit one or two of them during the chaos. He pushed the thought aside—it was no time for sentiment.
Reaching into his gear, he pulled out a jacket and laid it carefully over the first man, hiding his head and upper body. The dead didn’t deserve to be left like this, exposed to the elements. From the nest, he found a poncho and used it to conceal the man in the street. He then took another jacket from the last man, draping it over his head and torso, weighing it down with a few rocks to keep it in place.
Jonathan’s pulse was steady, but the edges of his awareness felt sharp, hyper-attuned to every sound and shadow. The powder he’d taken wasn’t bad quality—far from it. The bitter aftertaste lingered in his throat like an old friend. He smirked faintly, remembering the guy who had sold it to him. That guy lived not far from here, or so he’d said. This area south of Malmö was called Höllviken. Jonathan hadn’t been here often, but he’d once partied in a mansion nearby—a sprawling estate owned by a successful powder dealer. It made sense that many rich Swedes had moved to this quiet, safer municipality, far from the chaos of Malmö.
Inside the house, Sofia knelt beside Przemek, carefully inspecting him. She glanced up when Jonathan walked in, his presence filling the room with a charged energy. He closed the door behind him, pulling the curtains shut with an abrupt motion.
“It’s best we lay low, okay?” he said, his voice low but firm. “Please don’t turn on any lights or make a sound.”
Sofia noticed the faint residue of powder still dusting his nose. She narrowed her eyes, immediately disliking him more than she already had. Jonathan’s jittery, twitchy demeanor didn’t inspire confidence, and her instinct to stay guarded sharpened.
When Jonathan had gone earlier, she had taken her father’s pistol from the drawer. He’d shown her the basics years ago—how to load it, how to aim. She wasn’t an expert by any means, but it was enough to protect herself. She cast a glance toward the kitchen, where the muddy, blood-streaked equipment Jonathan had dragged inside now cluttered the floor.
Przemek stirred on the couch, his eyes fluttering open slightly, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sofia leaned closer. “Help me bring him to my room, okay?” she asked Jonathan.
He nodded silently, and together they hoisted Przemek up, his arms draped over their shoulders. Sofia’s old room was small but clean. She hadn’t touched it in years, not until a few months ago when she’d been forced to return. The white sheets on her bed were fresh, untouched by the chaos outside.
They set Przemek down gently. Sofia’s gaze lingered on him as she spoke. “Let’s remove his shirt. Have to keep him dry.”
Jonathan complied, and together they peeled off the shirt. Przemek’s torso was a patchwork of bruises—dark, angry blotches marking his ribs and chest. His muscular frame bore the unmistakable tattoo of a Polish eagle across his sternum. Sofia recognized it immediately: the coat of arms of Poland.
“Yeah, he’s Polish alright,” Jonathan said, trying to lighten the tension. His attempt at humor fell flat in the quiet room.
Sofia moved to close the blinds completely, shrouding the room in shadow. She returned with a glass of water, placing it on the bedside table. “There’s nothing more we can do but let him rest,” she said coldly. “You’ll have to keep him in check until he recovers.”
Jonathan lingered for a moment, whispering something inaudible to Przemek as Sofia stepped out. She returned moments later with a few cushions, tucking them under Przemek’s head for support.
Suddenly, a cold hand gripped her shoulder.
Startled, Sofia spun around to find Przemek’s eyes half-open, staring at her with a dazed intensity. His hand moved to her face, brushing her cheek in a gentle, almost tender motion. Sofia hesitated but then placed her hand over his, softly guiding it down to rest at his side.
They stayed like that for a while, their hands loosely clasped. His grip gradually loosened, and she slipped away silently, leaving him to rest.
In the kitchen, Sofia paused, her heart still racing from the unexpected moment. She glanced at the scattered gear Jonathan had dumped on the floor—muddy, bloody, and chaotic. Her unease grew as she peeked through the blinds toward the machine gun nest.
Far off, a figure stood with its back turned, analyzing the bodies. She couldn’t make out much in the dim light, but the sight made her stomach churn. Quickly, she closed the blinds again, retreating to the living room.
The house was heavy with an unsettling stillness, the silence broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards under her feet. Jonathan walked cautiously into the room ahead, his rifle slung loosely at his side. He froze when he saw a figure lying motionless on the bed, staring at the ceiling with closed eyes. For a moment, he nearly jumped, his nerves still frayed from the morning's chaos.
He turned quickly, startled to see Sofia standing behind him. “Who’s that?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.
“It’s my dad,” she said, her tone flat and detached. “He passed away last night. Don’t disturb him—you’ve already caused enough of a mess today.”
Jonathan took a step back, her words sinking in as Sofia closed the door gently but firmly behind her. “There’s someone outside checking out the mess you all just caused,” she said, brushing past him. “We need to keep quiet.”
Jonathan didn’t need to be told twice. They sat in silence across from each other on the sofas, the tension palpable. Sofia studied him in the soft light filtering through the drawn curtains. His brown eyes looked tired and hollow, his brown hair damp and plastered against his forehead. Average height, thin build—he didn’t seem imposing, but his mud- and blood-streaked uniform told a different story.
Her gaze landed on the bandage under his eye, caked with dried mud and water. “Shouldn’t we change that bandage?” she asked.
“At this point, I’m too scared to take it off,” he replied with a half-smile, trying to brush off the concern.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, standing abruptly. “You’ll regret it once it starts festering. Infection kills faster than bullets.”
Sofia walked into the kitchen, rummaging through a cabinet until she found some clean bandages and a bottle of disinfectant. She washed and disinfected her hands with quiet precision, grabbed a small headlamp from her jacket, and walked back into the living room.
“Hold still,” she instructed, switching on the light and leaning in closer to his face. “And for the love of God, don’t make any noise.”
Jonathan sat obediently, his big brown eyes fixed on her as she carefully removed the bandage. “How old are you?” she asked, keeping her tone casual to distract him.
“Twenty-one. What about you?”
“Thirty-one,” she answered as she poured disinfectant onto the wound.
Jonathan winced as the red liquid seared his skin. “You look younger,” he said, his voice strained.
She cringed inwardly at the comment but chose to let it slide. “I sure hope so,” she replied neutrally, glad he wasn’t screaming loud enough to draw attention.
After cleaning the wound, she stepped back into the kitchen. The faint sounds of her rummaging for supplies filled the quiet.
“Stay still,” she called out when she noticed him shifting in his seat.
When she returned, she carried a hot needle and thread. “This will hurt,” she warned, her voice firm. “Don’t yell out. Bite your fist if you have to.”
Before Jonathan could react, she gripped his head with steady hands and pierced the needle into his skin. He grunted, his body tensing as she began stitching the wound. His uninjured eye stayed fixed on her, noticing the dried tears on her cheeks. It struck him suddenly—her dad.
“What did he die from?” he asked, his voice soft despite the pain.
“Why do you care?” she snapped, not breaking her focus.
“I’m just trying to be polite,” Jonathan replied. “And besides, I don’t want him turning into one of those lunatics.”
Sofia stopped, locking eyes with him. “What do you think this is, a zombie movie?” she said coldly. “They don’t wake up from the dead. Dead is dead. And I have a needle next to your eye, so you’d better shut up and let me work.”
Jonathan swallowed hard, deciding it was best to keep quiet.
When she finished, she pressed a nonstick bandage gently over the stitches. “There,” she said, her voice softening slightly.
“Thank you,” Jonathan said sincerely. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
“For now, just be quiet. I’ll think of something later.” She stood and added sharply, “Stay seated. Don’t track mud on the sofa, and don’t do any lines on my coffee table.”
Jonathan flushed with embarrassment. “Understood,” he mumbled.
Sofia disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She leaned against the sink, pulling her father’s pistol from her jacket. Her fingers traced the grip as doubt gnawed at her. Could she trust these strangers? Two men, armed and dangerous, in her home—her father would’ve been furious if he knew.
She washed her face and changed into clean clothes but kept the jacket on to conceal the gun. Taking a steadying breath, she walked back into the living room.
Jonathan was sitting on the sofa, inspecting his reflection in a small mirror and looking at a photo of himself and an older man. He seemed deep in thought, lost in memories. Sofia cleared her throat.
“You can go wash up,” she said. “There’s enough cold water, but no hot. Leave your clothes to dry in the bathroom—I’ll find you something else to wear.”
“Thank you,” Jonathan said, standing. He noticed she had changed clothes but still wore the same jacket. Was she hiding something? He didn’t blame her—these were uncertain times.
Sofia lingered in the living room as he disappeared into the bathroom. She glanced toward the kitchen, her eyes falling on the muddy, bloodied gear Jonathan had brought inside. The weight of the day settled on her shoulders, but she forced herself to focus.
After a moment, she walked quietly to her room. Przemek was still lying on the bed, his breathing shallow but steady. She lit a small candle and placed it in the corner of the room, casting a warm, flickering glow. Their eyes met briefly—his blue, glassy ones meeting hers. Sofia hesitated before walking out, leaving him to rest in silence.