Her hand tightens around the glass, and the words stay sealed in her throat.

I thought leaving was an option. It isn’t. The job, this labyrinth, every shadow I navigate — it’s all inseparable now from shielding Elena. And no matter what world Tarmo thinks he’s scripting, I won’t let it devour her first.

The air in his suite feels heavy, and it’s not the vodka. Everything unsaid stacks up, crowding the space.

“So… if I tell you everything, every last detail I remember — what happens to me then?” she asks, keeping her tone casual, but her nerves are thrumming just under the surface.

He doesn’t even look at her. “You’ll do the job you’re needed for. Same as before.”

“And if I say no?”

Now his gaze flicks up, sharp, flat, unblinking. “You won’t. You don’t know any other life.”

Silence. He sips his drink. She watches the way his eyes track something past her — something remote. Africa, probably. CYcrds. He’s playing with an alibi so perfect it gleams, while everyone else is fooled by surface moves.

“You already know what’s in my head, don’t you?”

“I know enough.”

That line lands. It’s nothing, but it confirms everything. He’s mapped the next moves, Mitra and Karim’s haul, whatever codes they risked for. Africa’s the next horizon, Elena and her shuffled across the board, shadow pieces in his private game.

“Right. Just making sure I know the terms.”

He gives her that look, a near-smile that acts like a contract. “You know the terms. Always have.”

She nods, outwardly calm. Inside, the truth is taut, strung tight and unspoken.

Leaving isn’t really an option. Not because she’s scared for herself, but because walking away would leave Elena alone, trapped in the gravity of a man who turns whole continents into game pieces.

That, she tells herself, is one move she won’t let happen.

The knock comes again — gentler this time.

She barely lifts her eyes from the pakhlava, each bite slow, methodical, almost meditative. Since leaving Tarmo’s suite she’s been alone with the pastry and her thoughts, and neither has offered much comfort.

Karim pokes his head into the room.

“May I come in?”

She sighs. Naked, unbothered. Well, Karim, as you can see, I’m still not dressed for the occasion. It’s been, what, twenty minutes since you left? What’s so pressing it can’t wait for a shower and a piece of dignity?

He steps halfway in, that sheepish half-smile on his lips.

“I… don’t mind the state of dressing as it is.”

“Pfff.” She lets the air out in a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Hold on.”

She stands, crosses to the chair, slips into a long silk robe — still intimate, but at least not a scandal. She gestures at the room. “Alright, then. Talk.”

He leans against the wall, exhales like he’s been holding something inside for weeks.

“Since Dakhla,” he says, “I’ve been loyal… to you. Not just the work. Even when Hasna paid me, I did my job as your sentinel — fully, devoted.”

She tilts her head, arches her eyebrows: And now?

He drops his gaze to the floor for a moment.

“But after Iran… after all of that… I started missing my annoying tourists in Tangier.”

He smiles, almost wounded.

“I miss normalcy.”

The words settle between them, heavier than any code or scheme. Not Berbera’s ships, not Ankara’s brinkmanship, not the Horn or the next crisis. Just a tired young man wishing he could step out of the storm, and her, wishing for something simple to hold onto.

A quiet comes over them, stretched thin and tentative. Her gaze flicks to the window, green with late sun. She catches a memory, wild and fresh — her young Arabian stallion, eyes like smooth river stones, steady and calm even when she rode hard trying to outrun what frightened her. She swallows hard, resisting the urge to bolt or to beg.

She keeps her voice soft. “Did you talk about it with Hasna?”

Karim nods. His jaw is stubborn, but his eyes — kind, vulnerable. “Yes. I did.”

“And?”

“She gave me permission to choose. But…” Karim lets the word slice the air, splitting hope from certainty. “If I leave her service, I can’t come back. Not ever.”

She watches him, studying each part of his stance, how his shoulders tense, how much of him is still choosing. “You spoke to your cousin too?”

He lets a small smile ghost across his mouth. “Youssef thinks I should come home. Rest. Just — breathe. Live in the sun again.”

She nods. The ache inside her pulses, gentle but real. “I see,” she says, barely audible. “And I understand.”

His eyes linger on hers, searching for something — accusation? Grief? If he finds it, she won’t give it. She wants this to be clean, full of grace.

Without warning, Karim steps forward and wraps her tight in his arms. It’s brief, strong, and achingly sincere.

“I will always carry you with me, habibi,” he says, voice rough with feeling.

She lets her head fall against his shoulder — warmth, safety, a space untouched by schemes or ambitions. Just two creatures deciding, for this moment, not to be hardened beyond repair.

She smiles, mouth against his collarbone. “Go, then. When you find some peace, send a little my way.”

He lets her go, nodding, and the warmth between them lingers while the world presses close outside the door.

I.Ph.