“I said to finish the report and move on,” he interrupts, voice dropping. “You’re not here to play detective. We don’t need the drama. Clients pay for discretion, not heroics.”
There’s a sharpness in his tone I haven’t heard before. He glances at the monitors, lowering his voice even more. “Look,you’re good at your job. That’s why I keep you on the sensitive stuff. These people…” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might be listening. “You don’t poke at them. If you see something weird, you leave it the hell alone. Understood?”
I want to protest, but the warning is clear. His eyes linger on me, waiting for some sign of disobedience.
“I understand,” I say, the words tasting sour.
Todd’s face softens a little, but only just. “Good. Don’t fuck this up for us. You know how fast word gets around in this city. Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of these guys. Especially not over something that’s not our business.” He pushes off the cubicle wall, rolling his neck like the conversation is physically painful.
I force myself to nod, already feeling trapped. He walks away without another word, shoes scuffing across cheap carpet, leaving a hollow silence in his wake.
For a few seconds, I just stand there, pulse thrumming in my ears. I gather my things, every move deliberate. My bag feels heavier than usual. My hands are cold.
In the elevator, the mirrored walls catch my face—tired, pale, a little too hollow around the eyes. I look away before the doors close. Out on the street, the city roars back to life, neon buzzing, traffic shoving past. I tell myself I’ll let it go. I’ll do what he says.
But as I walk home, the name Sharov keeps circling in my mind. Every step feels like I’m falling deeper into something I can’t control.
Chapter Four - Miron
The report lands on my desk just after nine, as clean and efficient as anything Pavel’s crew handles. Folder, digital backup, cross-checked with surveillance and social media pulls. Names, numbers, timestamps. They always know how I like it—details sharp, loose ends trimmed. Most nights I’d read it over a drink, half listening to the city through bulletproof glass. Tonight, I want every word.
Her name is Seraphina Hale. Sera, for short. She signs off her emails that way, closes her accounts, pays her bills. Twenty-two, American, Italian-Irish descent. A data analyst with a midtown consulting firm. Her online footprint is small, mostly locked down, but they managed to drag out the basics. No criminal record, one speeding ticket, a string of top marks from a state college, minor scholarships.
Her friend is the more visible one—Izzy Bruno, the art world darling, always tagging Sera in blurry photos from bars and galleries.
I flick through the dossier, flipping past the obvious. Photos, address, even her preferred bagel order at the coffee place on Twelfth. Someone’s been thorough. I like that. But I never trust paper alone. Paper is what you leave behind for someone else to find.
“Pavel,” I call, not raising my voice. He’s never far when he knows I’m reading something new. He materializes by the door, hands in pockets, waiting.
“Get the car ready. I want to see for myself.”
He doesn’t question, just dips his head and slips away. I hear the faint click of his phone in the hallway, orders sent, wheels moving.
I tap a finger on Sera’s ID photo, the one taken by some bored government worker, and wonder how someone with eyes like that ends up invisible to most of the world. Watchful. Quiet. Wary as any stray.
I take my time before heading down. Old habits. I scan the file again: her apartment building is a boxy walk-up near the park, nondescript, low rent. She keeps odd hours. Leaves early, comes back late, sometimes stays out with the friend. Patterns. She does her laundry on Thursdays, grocery runs on Sundays, the kind of routine people slip into when they live alone.
The car’s already waiting at the curb. Pavel is behind the wheel, chewing a toothpick, eyes on the mirrors. He nods as I climb in, then pulls away into the stream of Manhattan traffic. We ride in silence for a while, city lights blurring past.
I look over the file again, flipping to the page with her schedule printed in black and blue. I like patterns, the comfort of repetition. But people are never as predictable as the reports make them seem.
We park a block from her building, tucked behind a delivery van. I tell Pavel to wait, stepping out into the cool night air. There’s a line of brownstones, most windows dark. Down the street, the late train rumbles through, brakes screeching. I pull my coat tighter, eyes on the stoop across the way.
After ten minutes, she appears. Sera. Her walk is brisk, purposeful. She doesn’t notice me because her head is down, keys already in hand, hair twisted up in a knot that’s mostly come undone. Her bag is heavy with files.
I watch as she hesitates by the door, glances up and down the street. Not careless. Not relaxed, either. She takes in everything. I wonder if she senses it. The shadow at her back, the narrowing of her world.
I let her disappear inside before I step closer. I walk past the building, slow, casual. I count the mailboxes. Hers is third from the top, name handwritten on the slip. I file that away. Always prefer firsthand confirmation.
When I get back in the car, Pavel quirks a brow. “Satisfied?”
“For now,” I say. “Tomorrow, I want eyes on her office. Make sure no one else is looking.”
He grins, starting the engine. “You like this one, Boss?”
I don’t answer. I’m thinking about the dance, the way her spine stiffened under my hand, the cold spark in her eyes. She didn’t fold. That matters.
We drive, city leaking away behind us. I flick through her file again, pausing on small details. She listens to the same playlist every morning, mostly old rock and a handful of dark classical pieces. She pays her rent on time, always a day early. She tips in cash.
