I've faced down killers, instructors who determined who would eat and who would starve, and captains who signed death warrants with a pen.
Sergei Baranov's attention feels different.
It isn't aggressive; it's total. It feels like being scanned by an X-ray.
For a moment, I feel like a boy again, standing in the snow in Volgograd, waiting to be sorted.
"So," Sergei says, his voice deep, gravel rolling over steel. "This is the one."
Ivan doesn't respond.
Sergei turns his focus back to his son. "Sit. We have much to discuss." He gestures to the chairs, then pauses. "Your... companion may remain. For now."
He takes a seat.
Ivan follows suit.
I remain standing near the door, my back against the wall, scanning the room.
A moment later, Boris enters, his expression carefully neutral. He positions himself against the far wall, opposite me.
The geometry of the room is set.
Ivan and his father face each other across the desk.
Boris stands on one side.
I stand on the other.
"The shipment," Sergei begins. "You were supposed to supervise."
"I changed my plans," Ivan replies.
"Why?"
Ivan hesitates. I notice the tension in his shoulders—minute but controlled.
"Instinct," he says. "Something felt off."
Sergei's expression remains stone. "Instinct is not protocol."
"No, but it kept me alive."
The silence that follows is heavy.
Boris shifts against the wall, his fingers tapping against his thigh—once, twice—then stopping, a nervous tic.
"We found a body," Ivan states. "On the way here. Grigori Volkov."
Sergei's eyes narrow, a flicker of recognition passing through.
"Volkov was already on the suspect list," Boris says smoothly. "Perhaps someone is cleaning house for us."
"Someone left a note," Ivan adds.
He reaches into his pocket and places a folded paper on the desk, sliding it across the mahogany.
Sergei picks it up and reads it, his face betraying nothing.
