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Summary
When Ivan awoke, it was with a loud gasp, it felt like he'd been sleeping through years he couldn't have possibly lived.
He was gasping—clutching his side, instinctively curling around the pain that wasn't there anymore—remembering the bullets tearing through his ribs and shoulder. He half-expected to still be on that stage, still bleeding, with Till’s face above him looking devastated.
Instead, the moment his obsidian eyes blinked up, it was into blinding fluorescent lights, with a looming figure above him—tall, plump, and distinctly alien. Familiar in the worst possible way.
"Ivan," came the deep voice of the one who had owned him almost all his life.
Unsha.
The name slammed into him harder than any bullet had. Ivan hadn’t died. Fate, in all its cruelty, had let him live.