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Summary
Nikita’s knees dug into the floor at the foot of his bed, hoodie bunched tight in his fists. He pressed his forehead against the quilt, shoulders shaking as silent, broken sobs wracked his body.
He didn’t believe in God—not really. Not for anything. Not ever. But right now, some tiny, desperate part of him twisted anyway, muttering prayers that felt ridiculous and necessary all at once.
He was begging, cursing, wishing—silent fragments of fear clawing up from his chest—just that Artyom would stay, just that nothing would happen to him.
“Please… please…” His voice cracked,
choked by tears.“Not you… not like this… don’t—don’t let him get hurt… please…”