When the darkness began to dissipate, he felt uncomfortable. Even disappointed. The darkness was comforting in its own way. Or rather, there was nothing in the darkness that made him uncomfortable. Because there was nothing at all. But with the light came irritating things—fragments of memories, sounds, stray thoughts. They did not form a coherent whole. He could not understand what was happening.

  Perhaps he had died?

  But although his body seemed to be suspended in weightlessness, it caused discomfort, as if something foreign had lodged deep within it. He remembered the voices around him—concerned, angry, tired...

  Do angels get tired? Devils certainly don’t.

  “It’s time to wake up.”

  A woman's voice sounded next to him. It sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before?

  Now that voice confidently led him toward the light. It was utterly unpleasant. He felt the uncontrollable heaviness of his body, the need to breathe, and a primal fear—either from the breath of death, which he had miraculously avoided, or from the realization of his helplessness.

  But the voice sounded again nearby, and the wave of fear subsided.

  “Come on, open your eyes. Don’t be lazy.”

  He forced his eyelids open. It did not help much: the room was bright, but everything was blurry before his eyes.

  “That’s better.”

  He turned his head toward the voice—probably too sharply. He felt his stomach heave.

  “Feeling sick?”

  The dark silhouette disappeared from view for a moment and then returned immediately. A basin appeared on the pillow next to him. He made an effort and suppressed the urge to vomit.

  “It’s pointless. Don’t waste your energy on that,” the woman said. “Nausea is very common after anesthesia.”

  That was probably true, because the nausea was persistently rising in his throat, and his body was willingly surrendering to it. He should have used the basin.

  But he just clenched his teeth tighter. His body had to obey him. Not the other way around.

  But his body had no intention of obeying. Instead, the discomfort was growing. When he had calmed the nausea a little, he looked at the woman. His vision had cleared; now he could see her face. Only part of it: a surgical mask hid the lower half of her face.

  He did not recognize her eyes. But her voice, muffled by the mask, still seemed familiar to him.

  Had they met? He should ask her…

  But when he tried to speak, he couldn’t. His own voice seemed to be stuck in his throat.

  “Don’t rush,” the woman said.

  She looked down at him with a steady gaze. Like a doctor looking at a patient.

  In fact, she was a doctor. Or at least someone on the medical staff. Her clothes, her composure, and especially that gaze gave her away.

  “Your surgery was successful.”

  Her gaze softened, and he thought she was much younger than he had assumed at first impression. She was just exhausted. There was something unpleasant, unnatural about it—young people like her shouldn't have such tired eyes.

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  “It will take some time to recover. But...” She looked away from the monitors and into his eyes. “Everything will be fine.”

  That was it. He had heard this in the darkness, wandering as though lost in a maze, futilely searching for a way out.

  Everything will be fine...

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to speak again. The woman's gaze darted to the monitors. Then it returned to him.

  “Don't worry. You're safe.”

  He shook his head slightly. That wasn't what he wanted to say.

  He frowned irritably and raised his hand to his throat.

  “It's a tube,” the woman explained, removing his hand. “They'll take it out soon. But it will be uncomfortable for a while.”

  He closed his eyes for a second. He was returning to reality more slowly than he should. Since he had survived, he needed to regain control of his life as soon as possible. Here, in this unfamiliar place, among strangers, he was an easy target. He needed to contact his people.

  While he was thinking, the door opened. He reflexively braced himself and tried to sit up in bed, but the doctor immediately pressed on his shoulders.

  “What the hell are you doing? Stay still!”

  He leaned back on the pillow when he saw another young female doctor enter the room. She didn’t even look at him: all her attention was drawn to the woman next to him.

  “What are you doing here?” she shouted angrily from the door.

  “And you, Sylvia, what are you doing here?” The woman’s voice was tense.

  “I'm on duty,” Sylvia replied.

  “So am I.”

  “In that case, you can go to your place.” Sylvia nodded towards the door. “Emergency, if I am not mistaken?”

  “My place is with my patient.”

  “Is he really your patient?”

  His doctor silently handed Sylvia a clipboard with papers. She looked at the documents, then at the patient.

  “Ah, it's that vagrant,” she murmured.

  She threw the clipboard on the bed and laughed mockingly.

  “No one has claimed this treasure yet?”

  His doctor took the papers and demonstratively turned away to the monitors.

  “I think you can keep him,” Sylvia said. “I heard you bought him fair and square.”

  “I don't buy patients.”

  “But since no one else wants him...”

  “Sylvia, didn't you say you were on duty? Go and do your job.”

  Sylvia frowned.

  “Have you told the police that he's awake?” she asked.

  “Not yet. He woke up a few minutes ago.”

  “Dr. Colbert risked his reputation when he appointed you as his assistant. He took pity on you, and you're not doing your job properly. I have to report this to the superiors...”

  But she was cut off.

  “It’s the on-duty doctor’s job to report this to the police, isn’t it?” his doctor said. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be in the office now calling the police instead of interfering with a real doctor’s work.”

  “You’ll never be in my shoes,” Sylvia hissed, then rushed out and slammed the door.

  The woman sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands.

  He gave her an irritating gaze. Her moment of weakness was untimely and frustrating. He needed to act quickly—contact his people before the police arrived. And the only one he had was this woman, who seemed to have completely forgotten about him. Has she fallen asleep in the chair or something?

  He stirred on the bed, but she didn't react. He turned his head, looking for something that might get her attention. The basin was still standing on the pillow. He struggled to raise his hand and threw the basin to the floor.

  The woman flinched at the metallic clatter as the basin rolled across the floor and rushed to the bed. He pretended to be sorry as best he could. After making sure everything was okay, she was about to pick up the basin, but he grabbed her by the sleeve.

  Damn. How could he do this without words?

  He looked into her eyes, then to the door. He moved his lips, saying what he wanted to say. Maybe she could read lips?

  She couldn't. But fortunately, she was quite quick-witted.

  “Do you want me to call someone?”

  He nodded several times.

  “As soon as possible,” she deciphered.

  He nodded again.

  “How can I contact them?”

  It was utterly frustrating.

  He moved his fingers. She had first handed him her pen, but he couldn’t hold it. Then she gave him her phone, but he dropped it immediately. She held the phone, allowing him to enter the number himself, but his fingers wouldn’t obey him—he kept making mistakes and finally gave up in extreme irritation.

  “Let me try,” she said. “I’ll show you the numbers, and you give me a nod at the right one.”

  It took time, but it worked. Finally, she showed him the number she had entered on her smartphone—and it was correct.

  He gave her a long, intense gaze.

  Do it. Right now. Go.

  She seemed to hear this silent call.

  “I’ll do it right now. Don’t worry.”

  And she left.