But I looked at him, like I really looked at him. And something in his face, his eyes, maybe, or the way he tilted his chin like he expected pain, made me want to put my hands on his shoulders and promise him everything would be okay. Even if it wouldn’t.
“It’s a club,” I breathed. “A secret one. Very exclusive.”
He frowned. “For what?”
I exhaled, fog billowing between us.
“For men,” I said. “Like ourselves.”
He blinked. “Like—what do you mean?”
I didn’t answer. Just started walking again, slowly. He followed.
I didn’t know if that meant Dimitri understood, or if he just didn’t want to be left alone on the street. Maybe both.
Each step closer to the bathhouse felt like a countdown. To what, I wasn’t sure. Salvation, or exposure. Either way, I’d know by the end of the night.
The old bathhouse loomed like a relic of some forgotten empire, all crumbling stone and ironwork detail blackened by years of soot and cold. The windows had been boarded up long ago, and the glass that remained was warped and yellowed like old teeth.
As we approached, I spotted a man lingering just to the side of the main entrance. Heavy coat, fur hat pulled low, cigarette glowing between his fingers. I knew his face. Mikhail, or maybe it was Milosz—names were slippery here, rarely used.
I nodded once. “Where’s the entrance tonight?”
He didn’t speak, just jutted his chin toward the alley that snaked down the left side of the building.
“Thanks,” I muttered, and led Dimitri down the narrow passageway.
The alley was quiet, shielded from the wind, but no warmer for it. A rusted drainpipe dripped somewhere behind us. Halfway down, we found the door—plain wood, painted gray, with a handle that looked like it had been yanked off an industrial freezer.
I knocked. Once, then twice, then once again. The rhythm, like always.
It opened a crack. A man with sharp cheekbones and a shaven head peered out, face cast in shadow.
“Who sent the invitation?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “The conductor’s baton,” I said.
He nodded, unimpressed. “Two rubles each.”
Of course. I pulled my hand from my pocket and handed him a folded bill. He took it, inspected it like it might be counterfeit, then swung the door open wider and stepped aside.
“Welcome to Sanctuary,” he muttered.
We stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the heat. Not just warmth—heat. The kind that made you want to rip off your coat and shirt and skin. It smelled like old steam, sweat, cigarettes, and the ghost of something floral—someone had brought cologne, bless them.
The lights were dim, with low-watt amber bulbs that made everyone look better than they were. The ceilings were high, still arched, like in the days when men came here to sweat out their sins. Cracked tiles lined the floor, and the walls were flaking paint in pastel shades of green and blue.
There were maybe twenty, thirty men. Some milling about in twos and threes, talking in low voices. Others leaned against the walls like they were part of the furniture. At the far end of the room was a bar—more of a table with bottles on it, but it did the job. A mirror hung crookedly behind it, and a fan turned lazily above, doing absolutely nothing.
“I’ll get the first round,” Dimitri said suddenly.
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You paid to get us in.” His jaw was set like he was volunteering for the front line. “Let me get the drinks.”
I didn’t argue.
