Inside, the air is warm, carrying the faint, clean scent of the lemon cleaner you used earlier. A half-folded basket of laundry sits abandoned on the couch. On the coffee table, a mug of tea has gone cold beside Niko’s open sketchbook—a detailed, surprisingly good drawing of a dragon perched on a rooftop.

From down the hall, the soft, focused clicks of a keyboard punctuate the silence. Niko’s in his room, absorbed in his homework.

The knock, when it comes, is firm. Not the hurried tap of a delivery driver, but three solid, measured beats that resonate through the front door.

You open the door.

He fills the frame. Alexander Sokolov. Ten years older, carved from harder stone. Rainwater beads on the shoulders of his black wool coat, drips from the sharp line of his jaw. His hair, darker than you remember, is slicked back from the downpour. The scar through his left eyebrow is the same.

His gray eyes find yours. For a second, there’s no control, no composure—just raw, stunned recognition. Then his gaze drops, past you, into the warmth of the hallway.

Niko has appeared, drawn by the unfamiliar sound. He stands a few feet behind you, one hand resting against the wall, his own gray eyes wide and curious.