“In a bit of a pickle over there?” I gesture to Alice, who’s attempting to grab a tattered book at the top of the bookcase. The poor young woman stretches her legs as far as she can, but she’s still a few centimeters short.

With a look of blatant disappointment, she nods at me.

“Your fault for being so short.” I smirk as I walk up and reach for the book. She furrows her brow at me, and I suspect the only reason she doesn’t verbally contest my remark is that she needs my help.

“Here you go,” I say, offering her the book. “It’s an old technical manual. If you think you’re gonna hate it, tell me now so I don’t have to climb up later.”

“Uh . . .” She glances at me before diverting her eyes.

“What is it?”

“I just . . . think you should not assume that I would not enjoy the book.”

I snort. “That’s not exactly what’s on your mind, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you’re looking at my scar, as you’ve done several times already over the past days.”

Scars draw attention, and mine even more so. It isn’t as simple as a brutally hideous winding line like many others have, but it’s more oval shaped, the size of a chicken egg, placed neatly at the center of my head. Because my hair grows so sparsely, the scars appear as clearly as the northern aurora against the wintery night sky. Fractured cuts grow around the wound, like cracking soil in drought season, while patchy lumps protrude from it. You don’t need to be a genius to figure out that no weapon can make that pile of egg-shaped mucus. I tried to grow my hair to cover the scar, but that’s not going well either. I think I’m the kind of person who’s gonna go bald in ten years. Enough said.

“I . . . um . . .” Her face reddens as she knits her hands together, trying her best to keep her gaze away from me.

“So? Are you?”

She turns away as she replies, “Yes. But it would be rather impolite to inquire.”

I shrug. “I’m not a Rushalka; I’m not eating you alive.”

“I apologize.”

“What for?”

She sits down at the table, keeping a distance from me. “There is a story to everything,” she says. “But it does not mean every story is meant to be told. What I am trying to convey is . . . I will not query about it if that displeases you.”

“A war wound. You happy?” I shrug. From what I can remember, the scar was anything but a war wound. It’s not like she specifically asked me to tell the truth.

She grimaces. “You talk as if it is nothing . . .”

“It is nothing. We get ourselves wounded all the time.”

“I have never seen such a strange wound.”

“You haven’t seen many wounds, I guess.”

“Well, yes. But—” Her right index finger travels to her lower lip. “If I have to make a guess, I would speculate it was from a traffic accident. High-speed and high-impact bumps can create cuts at odd angles.” She winces a little as she covers her own head with her hand.

“Traffic accidents? No. What world do you live in?”

“Do people not collide with vehicles in your world?”

“As in guerrilla dudes randomly sticking out machine guns from inside their armored vehicles and shooting us dead for walking too close to their territory, then yes. The scum from Chechyna do it all the time. They aren’t even a real republic, but they act like they’re hot shit.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Th—then . . .” Color drains from her face. “Did you get shot?”

“Worse. I had a sledgehammer buried in my head, got it? Almost bit the dust. Lost consciousness for a whole week, couldn’t think straight for half a year. Not the most memorable, but hey, at least it’s something to show,” I say in the most ridiculous voice I can. “‘Ya know, I’ve been fucked up by a sledgehammer, but still functioning properly!’” Then I end my joke with a forced laugh. “What a glorious feat, right?”

Exemplary as my joke was, Alice doesn’t seem to be comfortable at all.

“That sounds so unpleasant.” She frowns. “Did you bleed?”

“Yes.” I roll my eyes.

“Oh my goodness! I would not have been able to bear such a thing. You poor soul . . .”

“If you’re scared of that, you must be afraid of your own shadow. Traffic accident, really?” I snort. “Okay, I told you about myself. Your turn. What’s the story behind the ring you’ve been trying to get me to search for so hard?”

“Oh! You still haven’t found it . . .” She purses her lips.

“You realize how big this place is, right? I have an idea where your ring is, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to retrieve it for you. C’mon, I need to know how meaningful it is to you for this to be worthwhile.”

Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Now I’ve reminded her of the ring; she’s going to hassle me until I bait her into talking about some nonsensical underwater creature on the shores of the Atlantic or whatever.

It takes a minute of fiddling her thumbs for her to answer. “The Professor gave it to me.” Her voice is almost inaudible as she mutters that name, ‘the Professor’.

“The who?”

She ignores my question. “He said he had it made, so I also believe it to be that way.”

“Professor, you say? Have you been in a lab or something?”

“Yes, I used to be in a research institute. The Professor has been looking after me since I was little.”

“Research institute, yeah right.” I snort. “It’s a lab, woman.”

She frowns. “We have a proper name for our institute, a constitution date and everything.”

Aha! She was part of an experiment. That sounds more believable to me. No one is foolish enough to just walk into such sleazy places just to play around.

I used to be in the lab once. The most terrifying three years of my life.

“What’s the name of the place then?” I ask.

“Ah . . .” Her eyes light up as she turns her gaze to an indefinite direction.

“So? What’s the name?” I press further. If there’s any time to find out about that place, it has to be now.

She gnaws on her lower lip, face wrinkling as she replies, “I do not wish to tell.”

“Why?”

“It is not a topic we should be discussing now. I will tell you in due time.”

Dammit. So close. It’s fine; it’s all fine. There’s still plenty of time.

Holding back the urge to sigh, I change the subject. “Fine, have it your way. You know, I had a friend named Vasiliy who practiced for a while in the lab, so I know what it’s like. Things aren’t all bad when they need him alive and well.”

Even at their best, the people in the lab had been everything but kind.

“A friend?” Her voice perks up.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“No, nothing. Every human being should have friends, especially you.”

“Touché.”

I have already put forward the questions in my head so I can extract more information from her right away. But she doesn’t seem inspired. She keeps staring at her hand and rubs her left ring finger with her right index finger.

Just tell me you want it that badly, you doofus.

“Well, look at the time!” I point at the broken clock in the corner, “I need to head to the grain depot for another run. My intel tells me it might be tonight.” And no. It won’t be for the bread this time.

“What will happen tonight? Are you going to fight again?”

“That ring.” I rise from my spot, cracking my finger joints. “Tonight, it returns to you.”

I don’t hear a protest within three seconds. That’s an Off you go in my books. I grab the pistol on the table on the way out.

She calls me back. “Why do you need a pistol to get a ring?”

“Safety measures.” I turn to her and shrug. “Have you seen a soldier without a gun?”

“I—uh . . . I have not seen many soldiers. Still . . .”

“What? Don’t you want your precious little treasure?”

“I would be thrilled beyond belief if I see it again, but I need to know something first. I have never asked, but how dangerous is it exactly for you to retrieve my ring?”

I take a second to process the question. Why is she suddenly asking about my safety? We had a deal. I’m trying to have my job done. That’s how every deal has been done in the history of deals. Why is my wellbeing any of her concern?

“Well. I would say . . .” I squeeze the back of my neck. “. . . somewhere between walking a dog and jumping into the seventh pit of hell.”

“It is not a good time for humor, Alexei.”

“Not a good time for questions, neither.”

“I—it is just that . . . if you have to draw your gun, I would rather you stay here.” She’s acting even more awkward than I am. Her stance is so stiff she’s looking like a wax statue.

“Why?”

“However precious, my ring is but an inanimate object. If you must risk your life for it, tell me. I can learn to . . . live without it.” She turns away from my gaze.

“I’ll be back.”

“Please tell me. Is it dangerous?”

“I’ll be back.” I insert my pistol into the holster.

“O—okay. Come back soon.”

“I will.” I smile at her.

She makes an attempt to smile back. “Promise?” she asks.

“Affirmative,” I reply.