My hand curls into a fist at my side.
Irina moves toward the platform, weaving between a handful of late-night commuters. She thinks she can vanish into the cracks. She thinks I’ll let her.
I step forward.
Timur and Arseny shift like a ripple of dark water—closing ranks, sealing exits, clearing civilians with silent nods and careful positioning. No panic. No drama.
Just cold efficiency.
When Konstantin Belov’s name is on the order, failure isn’t an option.
Irina catches a glimpse of Timur’s jacket as he blocks the staircase. Her head jerks up.
Our eyes lock.
The crowd thins between us. A single, battered train roars past in the opposite direction, stirring her hair, lifting the hem of her coat.
She flinches. Takes a half-step back.
I don’t move.
A soft gust of wind cuts through the platform, carrying the scent of cold steel and cheap perfume.
“Irina,” I say, low. It carries over the distance like a warning.
She flinches. Swallows hard. Her body stiffens like she’s already bracing for the shot.
Smart.
Slowly, she lifts her chin—that old arrogance flickering for half a second before something more raw claws through. Desperation. Resentment. Fear.
“Konstantin,” she breathes, and it’s not a greeting. It’s an accusation. A plea. A curse.
I close the distance between us, boots striking concrete in slow, deliberate beats. Timur and Arseny hang back, invisible but everywhere. A perimeter of death.
Irina doesn’t move. Pride keeps her anchored.
I stop two feet from her. I can smell the panic bleeding through her perfume.
She drags in a breath, lifts her chin even higher.
“I see you finally replaced me.” A sharp, ugly smile pulls at her mouth. “I see she’s young and stupid.”
The words are meant to sting.They don’t.
What stings is what shedidn’tsay. Not once. Not one goddamn word about her own children.
I almost laugh.
Not from humor—from the sheer amazement at how delusional she still is. Nine years, and she’s learned nothing.
“You came back,” I say finally.
“I came back for what’s mine.” She says it like she owns something here. Like she didn’t sign her own death warrant the day she chose another life.
I tilt my head, studying her like the ghost she is.
“You mean what you pawned off for a crypto wallet and a penthouse?” I say, voice low and unhurried. “Or what you abandoned at six months old when some slick Ivy-League parasite whispered that you deservedbetter?”
