Just watches.
Measuring every word like it’s a live wire.
I step forward slightly.
“That’s not your decision to make,” I say.
Sergei’s gaze softens—but only slightly.
“Actually,” he replies, “it is. It’s the only one I have left.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I open my mouth again, ready to argue—ready to insist there has to be another way—but he lifts a hand slightly.
Not harsh. Not dismissive.
Final.
“I have to leave, Valeria.”
My name.
Said like something personal.
“Please,” he adds.
And suddenly the fight drains out of me—not because I agree, but because I understand him.
He’s not running.
He’s surviving.
I step closer instead, voice softening.
“Then…at least be careful.”
Something shifts in his expression at that.
A faint crack in the discipline.
“I always am,” he says.
But it doesn’t sound like reassurance.
It sounds like habit.
I extend my hand.
He takes it.
Firm. Steady.
Loyal, even now.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
And I mean it.
