Blood ran under the door like a slow tide.

Alexei stepped over it without looking down. Unbothered by the horror in front of him.

He moved quietly, his hands loose at his sides, and his head tilted a little as he listened.

The building held no power now. No light. No alarms. Just small sounds that told him where everyone was—drips, breath, the thump of a body hitting a hard edge.

He reached the next open doorway and stopped.

Zubair had Noah on the floor.

The man bled from everywhere.

Both thighs. Both hands. His mouth. His nose. The wall behind him looked like some type of modern painting of frantic brush strokes and blood spray.

Zubair crouched over him, calm as a winter lake, the knife hilt resting easy in his hand. He broke another rib with a short, sharp hit and waited to hear the sound it made.

Alexei leaned his shoulder to the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. He brought one ankle over the other and relaxed into the pose, like he had all the time in the world.

He watched.

Zubair hit Noah again.

The body jerked. The mouth opened, but no scream came from it.

Zubair’s face changed only a little—some small thing in the eyes that said the part of him that wanted this had been waiting a long time.

Alexei’s mouth curled. It wasn’t a smile, it was something much, much colder.

He did not speak. He did not move. He let Zubair work.

Down the hall, boots whispered on wet tile. Four of them. Soft steps. Careful. Trying to time their breath with each other so the sound would hide itself.

Soldiers.

They had learned to be quiet the hard way. They were good at it.

Too bad they weren’t good enough.

Alexei did not turn his head.

He kept his eyes on Zubair, on the knife hilt rising and falling. He listened to distance instead.

Ten meters. Eight. Five. He could hear the cloth scrape of gloves on rifle grips now, the little rattles that always gave men away when they thought they were ghosts.

Noah made a sound that was not a word.

Zubair broke the next rib.

The four shadows reached the door. They flattened to the wall outside the frame, two on one side, two on the other, muzzles angled in, breath held.

Alexei still did not look at them.

He let them think they were invisible. He let them line the shots up in their heads—one for Zubair, one for him, two for the mess on the floor to make sure it stayed dead. He let them count to three in silence.

On their two, he lifted his right hand and opened his fingers.

Cold rolled out of his skin like fog falling off a lake at dawn. It kissed tile, spread under the door, curled up and around boot soles. It climbed leather and rubber before it closed its teeth.

The first man tried to step forward. But his boot did not move. He pulled harder, unaware of what was going on. And still, it did not move.

Then he looked down.

His feet were part of the floor.

The second man shifted to cover the door and found his own boots locked in place as well. He jerked harder. The sound his laces made when they froze wasn’t loud, but all four of them heard it.

"Shit," one breathed.

Alexei made a small, soft sound in his throat. Almost a laugh, but thinner. He dropped his arms and turned his head at last.

His eyes caught what little light lived in the hall and gave none of it back.

The four men froze for a different reason.

"Don’t," one of them tried.

Alexei lifted his hand again. The fingers did not look strong. They did not need to. He turned the palm toward the muzzles.

Ice bloomed under their trigger guards. It crept along the metal like mold, silent, sudden. It caught knuckles. It swallowed fingers. It bit the curve of triggers and locked them in place with a dry crack.

The third man tried to fire anyway, but his finger couldn’t move.

The fourth went for the sidearm on his thigh. The holster mouth glazed over in a snap. He yanked harder. The holster shattered. The pistol stayed inside it, sealed in clear white like a bug in amber.

"Hands up," the second man said, voice thin. "Do not—"

Alexei rolled his wrist.

Ice ran up their forearms in quick, clear bands. It looked delicate as glass. It held like iron. Their sleeves went stiff. Their elbows slowed. Their shoulders drew tight against the wall like a wire had pulled them there.

Zubair broke another rib with the hilt, stood, and turned half a step toward the door. He did not look at Alexei. He did not need to. His head tilted just enough to show he knew.

"Friend of yours?" Alexei asked, voice flat.

Zubair did not answer.

Instead, he looked back down at Noah.

The man’s eyes had rolled toward the doorway like a prayer had rolled that way. He had seen the four shadows. He had recognized the shape of hope. Now he knew it was gone.

Alexei pushed off the doorframe and walked into the hall. His boots cracked thin ice as he crossed the threshold.

The first soldier tried again to tear himself loose. His ankle made a noise ankles do not make when they want to work in the future.

"Stop," Alexei told him. The word had no heat in it. "Or you’ll only break more bones."

The man stopped.

Alexei stepped up to the first pair and set his palm on the barrel of the left rifle. Frost took the steel and sunk into it, made it so cold it burned his glove. He squeezed unconsciously.

The metal sang once. He twisted. The barrel snapped at the midpoint with a neat, ugly pop.

He dropped the broken front half. It hit the tile and skidded away, ringing.

He took the second rifle and did the same.

He did not hurry.

He did not look angry.

He looked like a man completely relaxed and content.