TWO MONTHS AFTER THE SCANDAL, AND HERE HE IS. Danja has long recognized the truth of what he is: a dead man walking, a corpse in the morgue who has deluded himself into thinking he's special—worthy, even, of walking among the living again. It's a truth he, however, prefers to avoid acknowledging, as if the simple fact could ruin him again. As if going beyond recognition into understanding would be another kind of sabotage—from his own mouth this time, as opposed to a mirror of one.
All this time, Danja has been narrowly avoiding places where Telman and his wretched Institute could find him. He's burnt up a lot of good will these days hiding out in decrepit buildings and sleeping on worn couches. No doubt that his old professor was exhausting these connections for him, interrogating and pushing until someone gave. By the time his location had leaked, though, Danja was already on a train, plane, boat to somewhere else.
It's on his first train ride he scrawled down a list of possible confidants. It spiraled outwards: him at the center, trusted co-workers hovering in the middle, and those who he knew less intimately on the fringes. As Danja worked his way out, he crossed off the names of those like Anatoly (poor Anatoly—somewhere out there, undoubtedly harmed by Fedot Telman) and Yustina until he arrived at the coil's coastline. There sat one name he hadn't spoken to in years.
When Danja had finally arrived in London, he spent the majority of the time looking for Heathcliff Lamère. A heart surgeon. A greatly beloved one. Married. Small crumbs of information that led to a location, to Danja standing in front of a door, gloved hand raised to knock.
He hesitates only for a moment. This is your only chance. This is one of the few lifelines you have, and you will not squander it out of fear.
Danja swallows thickly, and raps on the door.
"Hello? Heathcliff, are you in there? It's... an old friend."
@unexpiated