I stood outside Yuri's bedroom door, the brass key and the letter pressed against my skin like a hidden toxin. My heart was a frantic drum, but I forced my features into a mask of pale, curated concern. If I were a "human password," then I needed to ensure the administrator never suspected the key had developed a mind of its own.
"Come in," his voice rasped.
I pushed the door open. The room was a cavern of shadows, lit only by the bruised morning light filtering through heavy charcoal curtains. Yuri was propped up in bed, his chest bare, wrapped in pristine white bandages that slashed across his tanned skin like a brand. He looked human for the first time—exhausted, drained, yet still radiating that quiet, lethal power that made the air in the room feel heavy.
"You're awake," I said softly, my voice a steady anchor. I walked to the bedside table and set down a glass of water, the silver tray rattling slightly.
Yuri's eyes tracked my every movement with a predator's focus. "You stayed. Most people would have utilized the chaos of an assassination attempt to vanish into the tree line."
"I told you," I lied, leaning over to adjust his pillow. My heart leaped into my throat as my hand brushed his warm, feverish shoulder. "I have nowhere else to go. You made sure of that the moment you moved my mother to your 'private villa.'"
He grabbed my wrist. His grip was weaker than usual, but his eyes were like cold iron. "Is that the only reason, Jessy? Or are you starting to realize that the world outside these walls wants you dead just as much as they want me?"
"I realize that I am a bird in a gilded cage, Yuri. Whether the cage is for protection or for show doesn't change the thickness of the bars."
He pulled me closer, forcing me to sit on the edge of the mattress. The scent of antiseptic and his signature cedarwood cologne clouded my judgment. "The bars are there to keep the wolves out. As long as you are mine, you are safe."
As long as I am a key, I thought bitterly. I leaned in, pressing a soft, hollow kiss to his forehead. It felt like a betrayal of my soul, a strategic move on a chessboard made of flesh. "Rest, Yuri. We have a 'romance' to maintain for your associates, don't we?"
His eyes narrowed, searching my face for the hairline fracture of a lie. I gave him a small, sad smile—the kind I'd seen in a hundred romance novels. It worked. He let go of my wrist, his head sinking back into the pillows as the medication pulled him under.
"Tonight," he muttered, his voice thick. "The gala. We need to show the world the attack didn't break us. Wear the red dress. I want them to see the fire in you."
I nodded, retreating from the room. The moment the door clicked shut, I let out a breath that felt like a sob. The game had officially started, and I was playing for my life.
The routine of the estate began to feel like a heavy velvet cloak—luxurious, but suffocating. I spent my mornings in the conservatory, watching the rain strike the glass like Morse code I couldn't decipher. Yuri had become a permanent fixture in my peripheral vision; even when he didn't speak, I could feel his gaze like a physical touch on my skin, mapping the "vault" he hadn't yet cracked.
I started to notice the hairline cracks in his own armor: the way he drank his coffee black and bitter, as if he needed the punishment to wake up; the way he adjusted his cufflinks when the silence grew too loud; and the flicker of something that looked almost like regret when he thought I wasn't looking. I wasn't just learning the Ghost Code; I was learning the man who wanted to wield it. And that was the most dangerous data of all.
I began to record my thoughts in a leather-bound journal found in the library, a desperate attempt to keep my "pre-crash" self alive. I wrote about the smell of burnt toast on Sunday mornings in Zagazig—the version of my father that the Volkovs hadn't managed to erase.
Yuri found me in the library late one evening, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked like a king who had realized his throne was built on a foundation of ash.
"My father hated that I drew," he said suddenly, looking at an old sketchbook I'd discovered. "Drawing is an act of observation. A Volkov shouldn't observe. A Volkov should act. Observation implies a choice—that you are waiting to see if something is worth your time. My father believed the world already belonged to us, so there was no need to watch it. Only to take it."
He sat on the edge of the desk, dangerously close. I could feel the cold air of the hallways clinging to his suit. "You watch everything, Jessy. You're looking for a crack in the armor."
"Everyone has a crack, Yuri," I whispered. "The UNI found the crack in my father's life. They found me."
His expression shifted, a flicker of something haunting crossing his features. "The UNI didn't just find you. They created the version of you that exists now. Before the collision, you were a girl with a degree and a quiet life. Now, you are a walking, breathing encryption key. They didn't just hit your car; they hit the reset button on your soul."
I stood up, the heat of my anger finally overcoming the chill of the room. "And you? Did you hit the reset button too? Or are you just waiting for the right moment to turn the key and lock me away forever?"
He didn't answer. He just reached out, his fingers hovering inches from my cheek, trembling almost imperceptibly. He didn't touch me, but the tension was so thick I could feel the static in the air. "I'm the only thing standing between you and the people who want to pull you apart to see how the code works, Jessy. Remember that when you're looking for your exit."