The apartment is too bright for the hour. Nadia is awake, small and tense, curled against Vera on the bed. Vera’s face is taut. “She refuses to sleep without her papa,” she says, helpless.
I sit beside the bed and tuck Grisha into Nadia’s hands.
“Sleep,” I murmur.
She shakes her head, voice small. “I want my papa.”
Her eyes lift to mine—the same smoky gray gaze, searching, familiar in a way that hits bone-deep. I lean closer before I can think better of it.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m your papa.” I kiss her forehead.
Raina stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Her back straightens. Her expression goes soft first, then taut. A truth she knew and still wasn’t ready to hear this way.
I sit on the edge of the bed so my face is level with hers.
“Yes,” I say again. The words are heavy but right. “I’m your father.”
“Like in the stories?” Nadia asks. “With bears and kings and fighting?”
“Sometimes,” I say. “I fight. I read stories badly. I burn pancakes. But I’m here. For you and your mommy.”
She studies my face, looking for lies. She doesn’t find any. I can give her this one thing clean.
Raina nods from the doorframe, eyes wet, mouth tight—small permission, small surrender, a warning and a blessing in the same breath.
I stay until her breathing settles. Then I stand and pull the door. Vera agrees to stay with her. We’re all afraid of the dark. Some of us just hide it better.
Back in the main room, I take out my phone and scroll to a familiar contact.
Mikhail. Quiet, careful, good with firewalls and lies. The one whose signature Raina thinks she saw in the erased hour. If he's clean, I want to know. If he’s dirty, I want to see him hang himself with his own code.
I make the call.
He answers on the second ring, voice smooth, alert. “Da, Sergei.”
“Are you well enough to come to work?”
He coughs slightly before answering. “Yes.”
“I have some network questions,” I say. “New site, new cameras. I want eyes on their traffic now, not tomorrow. Bring your kit to my city apartment. Half an hour.”
“Of course,” he says. “You want me alone?”
“Yes.”
A small pause. “I'm on my way.”
I hang up. Raina, who heard every word from her place near the window, crosses her arms tighter.
“You’re going to test him,” she says.
“I’m going to watch him,” I answer. “You’ll handle what he touches.”
I slide the laptop toward the center of the table. Raina has already armed the decoy trace, her little tripwire hidden inside the system, something that only reacts when someone usesMikhail’s exact methodof covering his tracks. If he touches the wrong file, the screen will show a small flicker in the corner. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to confirm what we already suspect.
Half an hour later, the elevator buzzes. One of my guards checks the hallway camera, announces it is clear, and waves him in.
Mikhail steps into the apartment with a slim black backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks exactly as he always has—hair brushed back, wire-frame glasses, sweater stretched at the elbows, neat movements of a man who lives behind screens instead of sunlight. He gives a tired smile that never reaches his eyes.
