"Why did you send Zoya and Igor, Niko?" Max shouted, his face flushed with anger.
Niko replied calmly, a hint of amusement in his voice, "Because I know about their connections."
Max's concern was palpable as he pressed, "What if something happens to one of them?"
"That's exactly what I want," Niko said with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "I want to see if, even after their memories have been twisted for this long, they still react or do something unique."
Niko leaned back, his tone becoming more reflective. "You know, Max, I've had my men watching prospects for what will make this team of Kaals. Imagine a 19-year-old boy having spies around the world to build a powerful foundation, all to make a woman's dream come true. It's not love, Max. It's madness."
He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing, "Do you want to know how I knew Zoya would be very useful to my goal?" Niko's voice took on a conspiratorial tone as he began to explain his reasoning.
A voice pierced the darkness, faint at first, then sharper. "Hey, Zoya... Zoya... Zoya... wake up!"
Zoya's eyes slowly opened, heavy and reluctant, as if the lids were glued shut by the cold and the vision was a bit blurry.
She layed surrounded by snow that stretched out around her, a blinding white blanket that stung her vision. It clung to her, dusting her lashes, melting into icy droplets against her skin.
She was lying in it—buried in it—her body half-submerged, the chill seeping deep into her bones.
Someone was shaking her. A girl with blonde hair spilling from beneath a knitted bobble hat came into view—a wild tangle framing a face with dark brown eyes that gleamed with a mix of relief and frustration.
Zoya's gaze locked onto her, the world sharpening around that familiar figure.
"Sylphy… what happened to me?" Zoya rasped, her voice weak and cracked from disuse. She blinked twice, the cold air biting at her eyes as she tried to focus.
Sylphy's hands gripped Zoya's shoulders—firm yet trembling. "You ran off crying like an idiot! Everyone was looking for you, you big dummy!" Her tone was sharp and scolding, but there was an unmistakable edge of tenderness beneath it—something that made Zoya's chest tighten.
Without warning, Sylphy pulled her close, wrapping her arms around Zoya in a fierce hug. The sudden movement shifted Zoya's scarf slightly as Sylphy pressed against her snow-damp coat. "Zoya… Zoya…" Sylphy's voice cracked as she clung tighter. "Are you okay? You know how worried I was."
Warm tears soaked through Zoya's coat where Sylphy's face rested against her shoulder. She couldn't see them but felt them—hot against the cold fabric. For a moment, Zoya froze, unsure how to respond.
Then, slowly, her arms moved—hesitant at first but eventually curling around Sylphy in return. The weight of her friend's worry settled over her like a heavy blanket.
"I'm sorry I made you and everyone worry," Zoya murmured softly, her breath clouding in the frigid air.
The snow crunched beneath Zoya's boots as she shifted slightly, still clutching Sylphy's back. The world around them came into focus—jagged pines loomed ahead, their branches sagging under fresh powder. The wind howled low and mournful through the trees.
Her legs ached now—a dull throb radiating from where the cold had numbed them—but she ignored it for the moment.
Sylphy pulled back just enough to look at Zoya's face, her hands sliding down to grip Zoya's arms tightly as if afraid she might vanish again. Her dark brown eyes scanned Zoya with concern. "You're freezing," she said firmly, worry hardening into resolve. "We need to get you back to camp. Can you walk?"
Zoya nodded despite the protest of her body as she pushed herself up. The snow shifted beneath her palms—icy and wet—sticking to her fingers as she steadied herself. Her knees wobbled dangerously for a moment before she locked them in place, refusing to let Sylphy see how shaky she felt. The world tilted briefly—trees looming tall and skeletal against the sky—but then it settled.
Her gaze drifted past Sylphy, catching on the faint trail of footprints snaking through the snow. Hers, probably.
Uneven, stumbling. She could almost see herself running, the memory flickering like a half-remembered cutscene: the sting of tears freezing on her cheeks, the burn in her lungs as she'd fled deeper into the woods. Why had she run? The question gnawed at her, but the answer stayed buried, shrouded in a fog she couldn't pierce.
"Come on," Sylphy said, tugging at Zoya's sleeve. Her friend's voice was a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of that haze.
Zoya let herself be guided, her boots sinking into the snow with each step, the cold biting through the worn leather. Her hands flexed at her sides, fingers stiff and clumsy, as if they didn't quite belong to her anymore.
The forest stretched out ahead, endless and unyielding. The sky was clouded. She kept her eyes on Sylphy's back—on the sway of that blonde hair coming out of the hat, the determined set of her shoulders.
It was easier that way, focusing on something solid, something real. The wind picked up, howling low through the branches, and Zoya hunched her shoulders against it.
"You're quiet," Sylphy said after a while, tossing the words over her shoulder. Her tone was light, but Zoya caught the undercurrent—concern, probing. "Even for you."
Zoya's lips twitched, a faint reflex, but no sound came out at first. She swallowed, her throat dry despite the cold. "Just… tired," she managed, her voice barely audible over the wind. It wasn't a lie, not really. Her body felt heavy, like every step was dragging her deeper into the earth. But it wasn't just that. Something else lingered, a weight she couldn't name, pressing against her ribs.
Sylphy slowed, half-turning, her eyes narrowing. "Tired, huh? Are you sure that's all?" Her breath puffed out in a white burst, and for a moment, Zoya's vision snagged on it—on the way it curled and vanished, like smoke from a dying fire.
"I remembered just now why I was running."
"Yes?" Sylphy said.
"It was because...."
"Because you didn't get the seeker role and not the hider role in hide and seek," Sylphy elaborated.
"You are very sensitive, Zoya. You know that.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Instead, her gaze dropped to her boots, watching them carve shallow trenches in the snow. One step, then another. The rhythm steadied her, kept her tethered. Sylphy sighed, a sharp little sound, but didn't push.
The camp came into view slowly, emerging from the trees like a mirage. A cluster of tents and igloos huddled together, the tents canvas walls sagging under patches of snow. Smoke trickled up from a fire pit in the center, thin and gray, curling into the sky.
Figures moved around it—blurry shapes at first, then sharpening into people as Zoya drew closer. Their voices drifted toward her, low and murmured, laced with exhaustion.
The camp emerges through the thickening dusk, a fragile cluster of tents and igloos clinging to survival amidst the endless snow. Zoya trudges behind Sylphy, her boots sinking into the powder with each weary step.
The wind howls, a low dirge through the skeletal pines, and the cold gnaws at her bones, sharper now as exhaustion sets in.
Sylphy's blonde hair—bright and tangled, spilling from her red bobble hat—sways ahead, a beacon against the gray. Her dark brown eyes had flashed with worry earlier, but now her shoulders are set, resolute.