Chapter Text
Later, what Ilya would remember would not be the violence.
Not at first.
It would be the lake.
The soft, hollow sound of water folding against the rocks. Evening light breaking into copper across the surface. The quiet that settles just before sunset, when the world seems to pause between breaths.
Then—
Glass.
A sharp, unnatural clinking that did not belong to water or wind.
Shane went still in Ilya’s arms.
“What was that?” he asked quietly.
Ilya followed his gaze toward the cottage. From this distance it looked peaceful — windows glowing warm gold against the approaching dusk.
Too peaceful.
He felt the concern rise, cold and immediate, but buried it quickly.
“No idea,” he said, forcing a shrug.
The lake water dragged at his legs as he waded toward shore. By the time he stepped onto the rocks, the chill had worked deep into his muscles.
He dried himself only halfway, movements distracted, then passed the towel to Shane, who was already shivering as the sun slipped lower.
“Come on,” Ilya said, aiming for confidence and landing somewhere just short of it. “Let’s go check it out.”
Shane pressed his lips together but nodded.
They crossed the damp wooden walkway, boards creaking softly beneath their feet, and followed the narrow path upward until the cottage came fully into view.
The front door stood open.
At first, Ilya’s brain refused to interpret what he was seeing.
Then he stepped forward—
Pain exploded through the sole of his foot.
He gasped, stumbling as a jagged shard of glass bit deep into the skin. When he pulled it free, blood followed immediately, dark against the fading light.
“Shit! Ilya — are you okay?” Shane’s voice trembled.
Ilya barely registered it.
His focus had locked onto the door.
Or what was left of it.
Shattered inward.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered.
Not loudly.
But with a tone Shane had never heard from him before.
Inside, the cottage smelled wrong — disturbed air, splintered wood, the metallic hint of broken things.
Ilya reached toward the lamp beside the entryway.
A shadow moved.
Too fast.
Something crashed violently against his temple.
The world detonated into white.
Sound collapsed into a high, relentless ringing as his knees struck the floor. Warmth spilled instantly down the side of his face; when his hand came away, it was slick with blood.
He barely heard Shane’s scream before rough hands seized him.
Dragged him upward.
Forced him into a chair.
The room tilted.
A masked man stepped into view, eyes flat and unreadable.
Steel touched Ilya’s throat.
Cold.
Precise.
“Greetings from your brother,” the man hissed.
The words barely had time to register before the knife drove forward.
Straight into his abdomen.
For a moment, Ilya felt nothing at all — just pressure, distant and unreal.
Then the pain arrived.
Blinding.
All-consuming.
Shane screamed.
The sound tore through him worse than the blade.
“Now,” the man said softly, almost pleasantly, drawing the bloodied knife upward until it rested again against Ilya’s throat, “tell us where you’ve hidden your safe.”
“Get away from him!” Shane’s voice shook with fury. “I’m warning you — if you touch a hair on his head—”
Even through the haze, a fractured thought flickered across Ilya’s mind:
Brave.
God, he was brave.
The man restraining Shane laughed and yanked his head back by the hair.
Ilya surged forward instinctively, but the knife pressed harder, forcing him back into the chair.
“Your brother was right,” the attacker sneered. “You two are pathetic.”
A car door slammed outside.
All four men froze.
Hope flared across Shane’s face — sudden, desperate.
Shane's parents, Ilya realized dimly. Dinner.
For one fragile second, it seemed like the night might crack open and let them escape.
The man muttered something sharp in Russian, irritation flashing across his features.
Then he looked back at Ilya.
“Fine. No money,” he said coolly. “But we’ll finish part of the job.”
The knife struck again.
Between the ribs this time.
The breath left Ilya in a thin, broken sound as his body folded sideways off the chair and hit the floor hard enough to jar what little air remained in his lungs.
The attackers’ laughter blurred, stretching strangely as darkness crowded the edges of his vision.
Then they were gone.
Just like that.
Shane was suddenly there — hands everywhere at once.
In his hair.
Pressing desperately against the wounds.
“Stay with me — stay with me, please—”
The words trembled, fractured beyond control.
A key rattled violently in the lock.
Shane screamed for help.
Footsteps thundered toward them.
But the room was already slipping away.
The last thing Ilya felt was Shane’s hands trying — futilely, fiercely — to hold him together.
Then the world went black.