A strategist. A fixer. A man who understood power without needing to announce it.
I remember him from childhood.
Always composed. Always watching. Always calculating more than he said.
When I reach the lower level, I see him immediately.
And something inside me loosens.
Relief—sharp and unexpected—floods through me.
Sergei looks older now.
Thinner hair. Heavier lines around his eyes. His posture carries exhaustion like it’s been accumulated over years of running instead of resting.
But his eyes—his eyes are the same.
Sharp. Alert. Measuring everything in seconds.
Like nothing escapes him.
Like he’s still surviving on instinct alone.
I step forward and take his hand.
“Welcome. It’s so good to see you.”
He nods once.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask quickly.
He shakes his head once.
“No.”
I gesture toward the seating area anyway. “Sit.”
Another shake.
“No.”
Of course not.
Sergei Volodin doesn’t sit unless he decides the world is safe enough for it.
A sound behind me pulls my attention.
I turn.
Timofey stands in the doorway.
Still. Silent.
A dark presence against the light of the hall.
Hands in his pockets. Expression unreadable.
Like a storm deciding whether to enter the room.
