"I need the balcony," I say. "Watch the office."
He nods once and moves past me into the
room, taking up a position near the window, angled to cover the door and the glass without appearing to try.
His eyes don't drift to my
desk; his attention stays where it should.
I step onto the balcony and close the heavy glass door behind me.
Cold air bites at my lungs. The city smells sharp—exhaust and metal, the edge of winter creeping in off the lake. I dial the secure line, wait for the connection to lock in, and keep my voice low.
The conversation is all work: routes, names, pressure points—instructions delivered in the tone men use when they've accepted that blood will have to be spilled.
When it ends, I linger outside a moment longer, watching the city wake up. Cars begin to move in the grid. Lights blink on in windows. People step into lives that will never intersect with mine except as collateral damage.
Then I go back inside.
Maksim is standing where I left him—same stance, same angle—but the air around him feels wrong.
His shoulders are set tighter, his spine straighter in a way that suggests not just alertness but restraint, as if he is holding himself still with muscle tension rather than discipline.
I look at my desk.
The files are stacked where I left
them, and the ORLOV folder is there too—closed.
I remember leaving it open, pages spread, my handwriting visible from across the room.
Now it's shut, squared away with a care that isn't mine.
I glance at Maksim.
He doesn't meet my eyes; he stares at a point on the far wall.
"Everything secure?" I ask.
"Yes."
His voice is flat, empty. It doesn't sound like the man in the car last night, nor the man who stood in the steam and almost let me close the distance.
I cross to the desk and start moving files back into the safe. Paper slides, stacks settle. The ORLOV folder goes back where it belongs, tucked away as if it never left the darkness.
I don't mention that it was closed.
I don't accuse him of reading it.
Maybe he didn't. Maybe it shifted. Perhaps I'm seeing patterns because paranoia has become a habit.
But I know what I left open.
Maksim shifts near the window, his movements controlled and correct, the way he moves when following rules he learned the hard
way—rules I wrote down, rules I exploited.
"You can return to the hallway," I say.
