I'd been in this office a hundred times before. It never changed—dark wood, heavy curtains, the kind of furniture that cost more than most people's rent. The man on the couch, though, was new.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

I knew Danil Voronin. I'd known him since I was old enough to run around my brother's ankles while he and his friends talked in low voices on the porch. Back then he was just the quiet one—the shadow, the watcher. The one who never smiled but never left either.

He was taller now. Broader. The sharp lines of his jaw had settled into something harder, more defined. The suit he wore was tailored, dark, expensive—a far cry from the worn leather jackets of our childhood.

He caught me looking.

He leaned back into the cushions, making himself comfortable in a way that told me he wasn't going anywhere.