Maksim.
My father's name. A drunk I barely remember. I had no reason to honor him, but the name was mine—the first thing in the world that belonged to me.
I wonder if Ivan knows that. If he read the file and understands I claimed my name in blood because violence was the only currency I was ever given.
Probably. Ivan hoards information like ammunition.
A sound from the bedroom cuts through the memory.
Fabric shifting against fabric. The friction of high-thread-count cotton. My body goes rigid, muscle memory taking over before my brain processes the noise. My hand is already on the grip of the SIG Sauer at my hip.
I hold my breath.
Nothing.
Just a long, heavy exhale. Ivan turning in his sleep.
The adrenaline spikes and then sours. I force my hand away from the gun. I've never been close enough to hear him move like that.
The urge to stand hits me hard—stupid and primal. To cross the distance between this chair and his bed. To verify. To see his face in the dim light and confirm that the movement was comfort, not distress.
I have to anchor myself to the leather chair.
That is not my function.
My function is the perimeter. My function is violence when required, and absolute stillness when it is not.
I am a weapon. Weapons do not soothe. Weapons do not tuck people in. Weapons sit in the dark, cold and heavy, until a hand reaches for them.
It is cleaner this way.
People are messy. People want things they can't explain. They carry pain that doesn't come from a wound. I watched the boys who tried to be human in the facility. They died loud.
Purpose makes you hard.
Ivan looks at me like a weapon. I have felt his gaze travel over me a thousand times. He looks at me the way he looks at the reinforced steel of the door—checking the integrity, ensuring the asset will hold when the pressure comes.
He doesn't ask what I dream about. He asks if I'm ready.
That is the right way to be seen. It is honest.
I have had a job since the day Ivan walked into the recruitment center in Moscow. He looked past the show-offs posturing in the ring. He looked at me, standing against the back wall, silent.
"What are you good at?"he asked.
"Following orders."
I stayed small. I understood something the others didn't. Ivan wasn't looking for a partner. He was looking for an extension of his own will.
Outside, the city churns on. Somewhere in the sprawling grid of lights, Viktor Sorokin is regretting his choices. Somewhere in this building, Boris is drinking vodka and making calls. The text on Ivan's phone burns in my memory.
One of them is family.
I don't know what that means for the organization. I don't need to know.
My world is narrower than politics. My world is the twenty feet of hardwood floor between me and that bed.
Another sound from the bedroom.
