No messages. He was on a mission, you knew that. Had told you he'd be radio silent for a few days.

But you'd also memorized his schedule, his apartment code, the spare key location under the third loose floorboard by the radiator.

KorTac had been surprisingly easy to convince. A few emails back and forth, a signed waiver, and suddenly you had clearance to fly to Russia and wait in his apartment like some kind of lovesick stalker.

Which, technically, you were.

And now you're here. Sitting on the edge of his bed, the sheets smelling like him—gunpowder, cheap soap, and something woodsy. His place is sparse. Minimalist. A few dishes in the sink, a jacket thrown over a chair.

The sun is setting outside the window, casting long shadows across the floor.

And then you hear it. The jingle of keys at the front door.