Then, I transformed that knowledge into architecture.
Concrete absorbs sound, making your own breathing feel intrusive. A single light hangs slightly off-center, casting shadows that tug at the edges of your vision, disorienting your mind. Metal furniture is bolted down to eliminate leverage. Chairs lack padding and are designed to force your spine into a rigid, exhausting posture. The temperature is kept just a touch too cold—sixty degrees—enough to drain energy from your body and make warmth feel like a distant memory.
Every detail communicates:you are not in control.
I never envisioned myself at this table.
Maksim sits beside me, his warmth seeping into my arm through the thin fabric of my sleeve—a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the room. His hands rest flat on the table—open, exposed, a deliberate stance.
I'm not reaching. I'm not threatening. I'm waiting.
They confiscated our weapons at the door without pretense. One of the guards, a man I've employed for three years, attempted to pat down Maksim with unnecessary roughness. The look Maksim gave him made his hand hesitate mid-motion. I saw that hesitation ripple down the line of guards like a warning. Even unarmed and injured, Maksim exudes a palpable threat.
Then the door shut, and the room began to work on us.
We have been waiting for eleven minutes.
Not because my father is late; he is never late. He views tardiness as a character flaw.
He is waiting because time is part of the mechanism. Silence amplifies guilt. Anticipation frays the edges of courage, making you rehearse your defense until the words sound hollow in your mind.
I keep my expression neutral, my spine straight, forcing my breathing into a slow, rhythmic pattern.
Beside me, I notice the tension in Maksim's jaw. His leg—the one stitched together—remains still. He's not favoring it, but I know the cost of that stillness. The pain is a high-pitched frequency in his nervous system that he is consciously tuning out.
Inside, my stomach is a tight fist.
The door opens.
Sergei Baranov enters.
He enters the room with the demeanor of someone walking into a board meeting, not a chamber designed for breaking human beings. Dark trousers, a grey cashmere sweater, no jacket, and no visible weapon. His hair is fully silver now—the kind that makes other men's wives consider him distinguished. The lines around his eyes have deepened since the last time I faced him, yet they remain unsoftened.
He resembles a man who should be holding a teacup in a sunlit kitchen. He looks like a grandfather.
He appears to be nothing dangerous at all.
And that is what makes him terrifying.
My father has never played the role of menace. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't pace, and doesn't slam his fist on tables like an actor portraying "power." He simplyispower—so complete that the room adjusts around him without him asking. Men have died because he exhaled and nodded. Organizations have shifted alliances because he remained silent long enough for others to dig their own graves with words.
In his presence, I find myself reverting. It happens before I can stop it. The Ivan of the past week—the one who led raids, improvised under fire, and preferred want over distance—drains away. I am replaced by the boy who learned early that his father's approval was not freely given; it was leased and could be revoked at any moment.
"Leave us," Sergei commands the guards.
They hesitate. One glances at Maksim, then at me, unsure of the protocol for leaving the Pakhan alone with two men who just burned down a distribution center.
"I said leave."
My father's voice doesn't rise or sharpen. It simply settles into the air like gravity—undeniable.
The guards withdraw immediately. The door closes. The lock engages with a heavy metallic click that echoes in the silence.
We are alone.
Sergei does not sit. He moves to the head of the table and stands there, looking down at us as he used to at my homework when I was ten—without expression, without warmth, as if the evaluation itself is a kind of intimacy he doesn't allow himself elsewhere.
He places a tablet on the table.
