Page 87 of The Atom Between Us

“In a confidential meeting,” the doctor says, then nods toward the corner. “But he’s watching the feed.”

Kang’s gaze flicks to the camera—just for a heartbeat—and the glare he sends it could cauterize. Then he nods once, slow.

My stomach drops. He just stands there for a long, still moment, eyes unreadable. Panic gnaws at me. If he’s not here to stop this, then maybe nothing between us was ever real. Maybe everything we’ve done, was just another Authority game. Maybe he’s here to make sure I forget him too.

The doctor steps forward “Hold still.”

Time does something strange in the chair.

First it slows, syrup-thick. I see the progress bar on the wall—eighteen percent, twenty-two, twenty-four—every number a shot of panic straight to the brainstem. The air pulses with cold blue light, so bright it makes the skin on my arms crawl. The vanilla-ozone mix is suffocating, sweet and metallic all at once, coating the inside of my nose with a film I can’t swallow down.

Then it speeds up, the panic folding into itself, a fractal of what-the-fuck. My heart races, a double-time arrhythmia. I can’t blink, can’t look away. The whitecoat stares at the readouts, never once meeting my eyes. Kang is, frozen in silhouette against the blue, and I want to scream at him: move, now, do something⁠—

Kang suddenly speaks up “Why now?”

“Ask Petrov,” the doctor says. “My job’s just to carry it out.”

Kang’s jaw flexes. “I’ll take over.”

The guards look at each other. The taller one shifts, uneasy. “Orders⁠—”

“Changed,” Kang cuts in. “Petrov’s not here. I am.”

For a beat, nobody moves. Then Kang walks toward me, slow, clinical. He crouches at my side, hands brushing over the restraints, fingers skimming bare skin where the straps leave gaps. It’s deliberate — enough to raise every nerve.

“Checking for swelling,” he says for the room’s benefit.

“Bullshit,” I breathe.

The first restraint hisses open. My left hand is free before I even process it.

A guard moves in. Kang spins — his elbow smashes into the man’s jaw, the blow snapping his head sideways. The guard crumples, not dead, but out cold. Controlled. Clean.

Kang turns back to me —

The second guard lunges, blade flashing. I see it too late. He’s not going for Kang. He’s going for me.

Kang’s entire body changes — no restraint, no calculation. He grabs the man mid-strike, wrenches his arm until bone cracks, then drives his head into the wall with a wet, final sound. The body drops.

The doctor bolts for the console — Kang doesn’t even glance. His hand flashes to his belt, a knife arcs, buries itself in the doctor’s throat. The man collapses before he can hit any keys.

The room is silent except for the hum of the machine.

Kang is at my ankles now, unfastening clamps, his hands skimming skin as if to ground me, to check I’m still whole. “Petrov told me to take you down after the pit,” he mutters, low enough only I hear. “Said you’d crossed the line. I told him I needed more time. Didn’t know he’d put you here.”

He unclips the last restraint, slides the IV needle free, presses his hand over the mark until the sting fades. “Can you walk?”

I nod, though my legs feel like lead.

Kang whispers, “We’ve got thirty seconds before the doors seal. We have to go.”

I swallow. My throat is raw. “Where?”

He grins, just a flash of the old arrogance. “Anywhere but here.”

We move.

We hit a stairwell. Kang practically throws me up the first three steps, then shoves the fire door open with his shoulder. The sound on the other side is deafening: the pounding of boots, the shouts of men.