Not just for the documents.
Not just for the warning.
For reminding me that my father’s world didn’t die completely with him.
Sergei nods once.
A small bow of respect more than goodbye.
“For your father,” he says. “And for you.”
Then he turns.
And for the first time since he arrived, the room feels emptier even though nothing has physically changed.
Just before he reaches the door, it flies open.
Matteo walks in, as if the concept of tension simply doesn’t apply to him.
And for a split second—just one—I almost laugh.
Because, of course, this is how the universe chooses to interrupt something like this.
Normal chaos.
Hischaos.
He’s wearing black straight jeans and a bright yellow crop top that should not work on anyone else but somehow does on him. His navel piercing catches the chandelier light when he moves. His lipstick is a soft, glossy pink, perfectly matched to his nails.
He’s holding several sketches pressed neatly in his hands, his usual dramatic excitement already in motion.
“Val,” he says, breathless, walking in like he owns the air itself, “I was hoping we could go over these sketches before I make a decision—”
Then he stops.
Mid-sentence.
His eyes flick across the room.
Sergei.
The documents on the table.
Timofey.
The weight in the air.
And whatever brightness was on his face shifts instantly into something more careful. More observant.
“…right,” he finishes more slowly.
Silence settles again.
Matteo lowers the sketches slightly, tilting his head.
“What did I walk into?” he asks lightly. “I’m going to go.”
He already starts backing toward the door like self-preservation has officially kicked in.
