I catch my breath, think strategically even through vodka haze. Something real but not exploitable.
"I can't whistle."
"Everyone can whistle."
"I can't. I've tried my whole life. Watch." I purse my lips, blow. Nothing but air. "See? Nothing." I try again, pursing my lips, and this time manage a small fart noise before spittle flies from my lips.
He shakes his head. "That's not embarrassing. That's just sad."
"Excuse me, I'm a trained killer who can't whistle. Do you know how hard it is to signal during operations? I have to use bird calls. Bird calls!"
"What kind of bird?"
"According to Nico, a very angry pigeon."
He laughs. Actually laughs. Not a smirk or dark chuckle. A real laugh that transforms his face, makes him look like the boy in that photo with his mother.
Oh no.My chest tightens at the sight, the sound. This is dangerous in a way his violence never was. This is the kind of thing that makes you forget who your enemy is. Makes you drop your guard.
Makes you want things you can't have.
The laughter fades. We're both drunk now. Not sloppy, but unguarded. The bottle nearly empty. I should stop. Should go to bed. Should maintain some barrier.
Instead, I pour us each another glass.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice has gone quiet, dangerous in a different way. "Not as the game. Just… asking."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Why do you say 'Misha' in your sleep?"
The question hits like cold water. My hand clenches around the glass hard enough that it might shatter.
"I don't know." Complete truth. "I don't remember ever meeting him. But I dream about him every night. A boy in a garden, teaching me Russian words. Laughing."
"Mikhail taught you Russian?"
"I don't know." My voice cracks. Control slipping. "I don't remember any of it when I'm awake. Just fragments. His voice saying the same thing over and over."
Alexei leans forward, predatory even in his curiosity. "What does he say?"
I close my eyes, trying to grasp the dream that slips away every morning like smoke. The taste of copper floods my mouth. Phantom blood from phantom memories.
"He says…" My hands shake. I set down the glass before I drop it. "'Promise me, Sofia. Promise me.'"
"Promise what?"
"I don't know." Tears threaten. I blink them back, but one escapes. "I never hear the rest. I just wake up crying."
Silence stretches. When I open my eyes, he's looking at me with an expression I've never seen. Not anger. Not calculation. Something almost like recognition.
"You really don't remember."
"No."
"But you knew him. Somehow."
"I was fifteen. He was eighteen. And apparently we knew each other well enough that I dream about him eleven years later." I laugh, bitter as the vodka. "And I can't remember any of it."
