May Day was a national holiday. That morning, the city looked as if someone had wiped a layer of dust off its shoulders. The streets filled with laughter, scents and color — the weight of everyday fear set aside, if only for three days, in the name of celebration. Sunlight spilled over windows and treetops, shimmering through strings of flags fluttering above the main boulevard. The air was thick with the smell of grilled meat, fresh bread, spilled wine and cheap beer. Vendors called out loudly to passersby, children ran with balloons in hand, while the older folks surrendered to that fake yet precious feeling of peace. For a moment, it seemed the world had forgotten war. The Amber Directorate wasn’t working, and even the mafia had put down its weapons. Two forces that usually breathed against each other now shared the same air, the same calm, the same sunlight.

  Killian Phoenix, 01. May 2025

  Killian Phoenix didn’t look like a man who belonged to the world of shadows. The presence usually wrapped in dark coats and a silence that warned, now carried a different kind of stillness. No gloves, no coat, no edge. Only a dark shirt and simple trousers, sleeves loosely rolled up, the posture of a man who — if only temporarily — had set his battles aside. His steps were steady, measured, as though he wasn’t walking through a city he controlled with an iron grip, but through a place he loved in a way even he couldn’t explain. His leg was still bandaged — no pain, but a reminder — and he respected his body the same way he respected silence. A black cane rested in his hand, more a symbol of discipline than weakness.

  People greeted him along the street — workers, bakers, barbers, vendors. No bowing, no fear — only genuine nods. And he returned every greeting just as simply.

  “How’s your mother, Mr. Avlon?”

  “That bread smells better than last spring, Mrs. Lisa.”

  He spoke softly, but with warmth rarely seen from the man known for coldness. This was a Killian few in the underworld ever met — a version seen only by those who owed him their lives.

  Mid-street, a woman stopped him. Beside her — a child, messy-haired, shirt stained with caramel. The moment the boy saw him, he ran forward and wrapped his arms around Killian’s leg.

  “Uncle Phoenix!”

  Killian bent down, forgetting his injury for a second, rested his hand on the boy’s head and pulled out his wallet. He took a few coins and placed them into the small palm.

  “Go buy ice cream,” he said gently, a faint smile touching his lips. “And listen to your mother.”

  The boy nodded eagerly and sprinted off toward the ice-cream truck. His mother bowed slightly, voice thick with gratitude.

  “How did the operation go?” Killian asked, though he already knew.

  “Great,” she breathed, eyes shining with gratitude and a trace of shame. “All thanks to you.”

  Killian smiled — quietly, a smile made of pride and weariness blended together.

  “Give my regards to your husband,” he said, continuing down the street.

  The sun climbed higher, its light sliding along black windows and cobblestones, catching the hair of passersby, glinting off glass bottles at kiosks. Killian walked slowly, observing it all like someone rediscovering a world in color. In this image of peace, his presence was a silent counterpoint — a man who knew this wasn’t reality, only a pause before the next storm. And still, he walked on, wearing a smile that did not belong to a mafioso nor a warrior — but to a man who chose, for one moment, to believe in peace.

  His feet carried him naturally, without thought, toward the Hotel Cube. The building stood like a witness to countless nights and secrets — tall, elegant, with dark windows reflecting the spring sky. It was his fortress, but also his home; a place where verdicts used to be made, now breathing calm, scented with wine and roasted meat instead of gunpowder.

  As he stepped inside, the doors opened without sound, and the soft chime announced his arrival. The hostesses recognized him instantly — their smiles wide, genuine rather than fearful.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Phoenix!”

  Killian nodded politely to both.

  “Good day, Clara. Good day, Lea.”

  His voice was steady, reassuring, as he moved across the foyer where golden walls played with shadows like they remembered all that had happened here.

  In the hallway, a waiter passed — a young man with tired eyes, known for his quick steps and eternally crooked tie. Killian lifted a hand to stop him.

  “Arthur, did you get your mother’s medicine?”

  The boy shook his head, embarrassed.

  “They raised the prices again, sir.”

  Killian paused, brow raised slightly. Then he drew out several bills and held them out. Artur shook his head quickly, almost panicked.

  “You’ve already helped too much, sir—”

  “Tell me how much,” Killian cut gently, but with a tone that left no room for refusal, “and they’ll raise your salary as well.”

  He didn’t wait for gratitude. He walked on, leaving behind a whispered “thank you” lost in the noise of kitchen doors. Inside the kitchen, the air was thick with butter and onions. In the center stood Maya, head chef for more than a decade — slicing onions with swift, confident hands. Her eyes brightened when she saw him.

  “Maya,” he said, “did your children start school?”

  She chuckled without stopping the knife. “They did, Mr. Phoenix. Second grade now.”

  “Time flies,” he nodded. “Tell the manager I said to give you a bonus.”

  The knife paused mid-air. “Thank you, sir… thank you.”

  “Buy them something nice,” he added, already turning away.

  At the end of the hall was the bar — dark wood walls, shelves lined with wine and expensive liquor glinting under soft light. Behind the counter stood an older man with thick mustache and hands that knew glass better than his own skin. He polished a glass with a surgeon’s care. Killian sat on the high stool, rested the cane beside him, hand brushing his thigh — where the wound still existed, painless yet persistent, a reminder that bodies remember what minds try to forget.

  “You well, William?”

  The bartender paused briefly, then smiled.

  “As always, Mr. Phoenix.”

  Without a word, he poured wine — dark, rich, heavy with the scent of cherries and ash. Killian swirled it, watching the crimson reflection spread across the glass.

  “You know me too well, Will.”

  The old man shrugged, still polishing.

  “That’s why this bar stands,” he said. “In this business, sir, it’s important to know when to pour — and when to stay silent.”

  Killian let out a quiet, short laugh — more like a memory than amusement.

  “That’s why you’re still here,” he replied, raising the glass. “You’re better at silence than most.”

  He gazed into the wine — the surface reflecting his face, calm and tired. Then he took a slow sip, eyes closed, allowing himself — if only for a heartbeat — to believe the world truly could be peaceful.

  Vivian Thorn, 01. May 2025

  Vivian opened the terrace door, and sunlight poured into her apartment like into a gallery. Flowers stood neatly arranged in rows — lavender, basil, orchids, and a few small, carefully nurtured roses. She tended to each with patience, watering slowly until droplets shimmered on the leaves like glass.

  In the background, water in the kettle began to boil softly. She poured herself hibiscus tea, smelling like summer still far away, and settled into her armchair on the terrace. A book in her hands, peace in her eyes.

  The world was quiet — May Day. A day when even the Amber Directorate didn’t breathe too loudly. No office awaited her today, no missions, no reports, no walls covered with maps and evidence. Today, only the city waited — and all the little joys she had postponed for months.

  She set the cup in the sink and slipped into a smoky–grey silk dress — soft, long, falling over her body like water. No buttoned shirt up to her throat, no tailored pants, none of the sharp lines of authority. Yet her walk was still firm, carrying a faint metallic echo with each step. Across her shoulder and collarbone curled black runes — ancient sigils like seals of power forged long ago.

  She lowered a wide summer hat over her hair, hid her eyes behind glasses that reflected the sky. She was beautiful in a quiet, elusive way — the kind of woman one can never fully see, because every piece of her belongs to a different story.

  Her first stop was a bookstore on the old street. Wooden shelves, the smell of paper and dust, a silence soft as breath. Vivian ran her fingers along book covers as if reading through touch, lingering on titles, on first sentences she opened at random. As if she already saw the ending hidden inside them. She picked three — one on alchemy, one on the psychology of myth, and a thin poetry collection she recognized by the author’s name. When she stepped outside, the wind carried the scent of ink and paper behind her.

  Her next stop was her favorite tea shop — a small place lined with dark wooden shelves, jars filled with blends from all corners of the world. The owner already knew her — always the same orders, each visit a new story. Vivian tasted a new rose–bud cinnamon blend, inhaled, and ordered half a kilogram. She always bought too much — routine, discipline, ritual. Everything she did had structure.

  Only then she crossed to the other side of the city, to her beloved garden shop.

  It wasn’t close to her apartment, but there they sold what she cherished most — blue orchids. Rare. Delicate. Their petals looked painted with cold moonlight. They bloomed only for a few weeks each year. For Vivian, that was reason enough to cross half the city.

  By the time she arrived, the sun was already high, glinting off shop windows. The store was small, crowded with plants and clay pots, drenched in the scent of soil, moisture and blossoms — rich and almost intoxicating. She paused at the entrance, letting her gaze drift across the flowers, one hand resting against the door. She smiled — the scent, the color, the quiet — everything was as it should be. Across the street, golden letters caught her eye: Hotel Cube. The elegant sign shimmered under the sun. A place where she once negotiated with people who no longer greeted her on the street. A hotel owned by one of the most dangerous men in the city. And perhaps the only one who understood silence the way she understood it.

  She stood before the garden shop entrance, with pots lining both sides of the path — tulips, peonies, begonias, and rows of flowers still wet with morning dew. And among them — orchids. Not ordinary ones, but the ones that drew her back here every year, blue as a storm–laden sky.

  Vivian knelt beside one. The dress draped over her knees, the hat tipping forward as she parted the leaves with her hand. She lowered her glasses to the bridge of her nose to see better — and touched the petal with her fingertips. Cold. Smooth. Fragile like porcelain. The scent was barely there, soft and thin, like a breath lost in city noise. She held her hand above the flower and looked — not just with her eyes, but as if trying to memorize it. As if the delicate lines whispered reminders about impermanence, about everything that cannot return. In her eyes reflected the sky — and the glint of the hotel windows across the street. It was the same look of someone who sees deeper than she wants to, and much further than is healthy.

  Then she heard a voice behind her. Warm. Deep. As if coming from a dream.

  “Blue orchids,” he said, every word carrying measured silence. “They’ve always reminded me of your eyes.”

  Her hand trembled. The steady touch became a sudden flutter. She stood up too quickly, pressure blooming in her chest — a forgotten mix of pain and something too close to longing.

  She turned — but the tall, dark–haired man was already walking down the street. Straight posture. Calm steps. Sun catching the edges of his shoulders, glimmering along the black shirt. A cane in his hand. His pace as silent as his words, and the cane tapping the ground in a cold, precise rhythm.

  Vivian remained standing between the scent of flowers and the warmth of the day.

  She didn’t call him. She didn’t move.

  She simply watched as his figure dissolved into the crowd, and the voice she remembered echoed in her mind — a voice from a past buried beneath layers of logic, duty, and choices that once felt right. Despite all the clarity she lived by, despite every solution her mind assembled quickly — he remained the unsolved sweet mystery of a forgotten past.

  She stood looking after him for a long time, and something quiet bloomed in her chest — not memory, not regret, but a simple realization that in another life, another time, she might still have been his.

  Hannah Adler, 01. May 2025

  Hannah Adler did not know how to rest. For others it was a simple skill — for her, an abstract art. The national holiday granted three days off, but she greeted them like punishment. The sun had been lighting her apartment for hours, yet she stood in the shade of tall curtains, wiping an already spotless kitchen counter with a cloth. Her movements were fast, mechanical, precise to the millimeter.

  Everything in her world needed order — if not outside, then at least inside. The apartment was quiet.

  A silence that didn’t belong to peace, but to emptiness. The scent of detergent and coffee mixed with leather from the living room, while somewhere in the distance an old jazz tune played from a neighbor’s radio. Hannah glanced at the clock. The hands moved, but time did not. It felt as though the world was rewinding, each passing minute merely returning her to the same moment.

  She put the cloth aside, dried her hands on a towel and walked into the living room. Minimalist, spacious, warm — but in a way that felt almost artificial, as if every piece of furniture was chosen to look comfortable, though none were meant to truly be used. She sat on the coffee–colored sofa, crossed her legs, opened her phone, and scrolled through emails.

  All already opened. All neatly answered. All archived. No mistakes. No need for her.

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. The cold leather pressed against her neck. The phone nearly slipped from her hand — just as it rang. The sound cut through the silence. A short jolt through her body, reflex, training.

  “Adler,” she said. The same tone she used days ago delivering a homicide report.

  On the other end — a voice young, a bit unsure, but familiar.

  “Uh, Hannah… so… since it’s a holiday and all…”

  Anton. She didn’t interrupt, but she already sat straighter. One hand held the phone, the other tugged her sleeve.

  “I thought maybe… we could do a barbecue. And, uh… pick up Leonid too… And food, you know… it would be fun.”

  His voice held a warmth she no longer knew how to produce. She didn’t answer. The seconds between them lasted longer than most of her missions. She weighed reasons. Weighed consequences. Weighed everything. And still, the only thing echoing in her mind was his voice: “It would be fun, Hannah.”

  She exhaled softly. Looked at the window where the city shimmered in afternoon light, then at her own hand — steady, cold, professional. If peace had a mission, this was it. Help Anton enjoy the holiday. Protect him — from the world, and from himself.

  “I’ll be there in an hour,” she said evenly. “Send me your address.”

  She set the phone down, stood up, and walked to the wardrobe. Everything she ever wore had purpose, meaning, classification. Today — for the first time in a long while — she would choose something that had none.

  Leonid Frost, 01. May 2025

  For Leonid, the holiday brought nothing new. Morning passed like any other — gray, stretched thin, without meaning. He sat on his couch, half–lit room, in his usual pose: right leg over left, whiskey glass in one hand, cigarette in the other. Smoke curled toward the ceiling and faded into the dim, while he scrolled through articles on his phone — neuron research, theories on sleep, some abstract paper on time perception in insomniacs.

  Essentially, he was killing hours. Methodically. The way only those who don’t sleep know how.

  The ashtray on the table was full, glass damp from the heat of his hand. Everything smelled of tobacco and whiskey, of boredom and isolation. His small world in perfect balance — quiet, predictable, controlled.

  Until the phone rang. He flinched at the vibration. Looked at the screen, breath caught for a moment: Hannah Adler.

  He set the glass down, tapped his cigarette, answered — voice always half sarcasm, half concern.

  “Hannah?”

  On the other side — that familiar trained coldness, but beneath it a micro–tone only he could hear.

  “Get ready. We have a situation.”

  The sentence landed like an order. Leonid straightened, wedged the phone between shoulder and cheek as he grabbed his coat.

  “What happened?”

  He was already standing.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Hannah, wait—”

  The line was already dead.

  A beat of silence. A flash between professional reflex and pure suspicion. He grabbed his keys, wallet, cigarettes, and stepped out. Warm wind greeted him on the stairwell, restless, like it sensed chaos.

  He waited outside the building. After a few minutes, a black car pulled up — engine purring like a well–kept secret. Hannah at the wheel, calm, precise. Leonid approached, opened the passenger door — and froze.

  He expected weapons, maps, another case. Instead — Hannah in jeans and a simple T-shirt, hair tied loosely, sunglasses on. And in the back seat: Anton. Seatbelt fastened. Smiling like the world was kind. Next to him — mini cooler, bags of meat, barbecue supplies, even a volleyball rolling with every turn.

  Leonid blinked. Closed the door behind him. Buckled in with the sigh of a man who knows he’ll regret this — and has no choice anyway.

  “So you said… situation?” His tone dry. His eyes amused.

  Hannah didn’t look away from the road.

  “The situation is fun.”

  Anton leaned forward between the seats, bursting with pure joy.

  “We’re going grilling!”

  Leonid exhaled smoke, deadpan.

  “Understood. Mission: survive the holiday.”

  Isaac Phoenix, 01. May 2025

  That day, Isaac laughed deeper than usual — a laugh that wasn’t forced, but rose from his stomach and flooded his face until his eyes softened. He was simply dressed, in a black T–shirt and pants. The wind kept tugging at loose strands of his hair, which today wasn’t tied back; it danced freely, as if it too had been given a holiday.

  They were on a wide field by the river, where the grass grew tall and smelled of salt and metal. Sunlight played on the water, its reflection throwing golden sparks across their glasses and bottles. Around them people were barbecuing, children chased a ball, and from somebody’s portable speaker a song spilled out — too many feelings, too little rhythm. It didn’t bother anyone. The world was softer today, slower, more forgiving.

  Isaac stood beside Ivy and Agron, watching the meat on the grill and drinking beer from a glass bottle. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, oil, roasted meat, the heat of the coals and the salty wind from the river. Agron, massive as a mountain, stood over the grill in an apron that said “King of May”, and his metal teeth flashed every time he laughed.

  Once he burst into such loud laughter that, with a clink, his glass eye popped out and rolled off into the grass. Ivy dropped to her knees laughing, clutching her stomach, while Agron spun left and right, swearing through the laughter.

  “Find it, man, find it, I don’t have a spare!”

  Isaac found it, of course, but he didn’t give it back right away. He tossed it from hand to hand, pretending to do magic tricks, while Ivy was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

  “Watch this, watch this — gone!”

  Agron growled through his grin.

  “You’ll be gone if you break it!”

  In that moment, there was no mafia, no hierarchy, no blood under their fingernails. They were just people — a family. Not by blood, but by that invisible bond life forges when too much pain and too little light are shared.

  Ivy crossed one leg over the other and leaned against the cooled car they’d parked near the river.

  Agron finally set the eye back in place, shook off his hands and roared with laughter:

  “Next round of sausages is yours, Phoenix! Let’s see if you can turn anything other than weapons!”

  “I can,” Isaac answered, smiling as he stepped up to the grill. “But if it burns, you’re eating first.”

  Ivy laughed and added:

  “If it burns, we’re all eating. That’s tradition.”

  It was a simple moment. Ordinary. Warm. And precisely because of that — rare. For that one day, the mafia wasn’t an empire of fear or a machine of order and blood. They were just three people on the grass, in the smell of smoke and laughter, under a sky that finally seemed relaxed.

  A car pulled up — a black limousine. The engine cut off, and in the muffled noise of the river and birdsong, that small silence rang louder than the music around them.

  Isaac knew immediately.

  Before the doors opened, before any face appeared — he recognized it from the license plates, from the shade of paint, from the way the light slid across the metal. The hand holding his beer dropped along his thigh. His fingers stayed wrapped around the cold glass, but his gaze went rigid.

  Ivy noticed first. She knew him too well to miss that shift in his posture — that subtle transition from laughter to tension. She looked over his shoulder, followed his line of sight, and when she saw the limousine, she punched him lightly in the arm.

  “Your better half is here,” she said, with a smile that spread across her face like sunlight.

  Isaac just gave a short, dry smile, waved her off and ran his fingers through her hair, messing it up.

  Ivy laughed louder, straightened her stance, and in the same rhythm she’d been teasing him with for years, muttered:

  “Don’t pretend you don’t care.”

  The car door opened. Hannah got out first. Her movements were calm but decisive, as always. Jeans, a T–shirt, hair tied back — and still, there was a kind of elegance in her that had nothing to do with clothes, and everything to do with the way she occupied space. She was gesturing as she spoke to Leonid, probably about the bags, nodding toward the trunk.

  Leonid, disciplined soldier that he was, was hauling bags, the cooler, and the rest of the supplies with the care of someone handling weapons, not food. As he bent, cigarette smoke followed the line of his shoulders.

  Anton carried only the volleyball. He was practically bouncing from excitement, not knowing what to do with himself.

  Then they saw them.

  The moment stretched between the two groups. Mafia on one side — in civilian clothes, laughing, relaxed, smelling of smoke and grilled meat. Directorate on the other — freshly pressed, controlled, ready even “off duty.”

  Hannah’s gaze met Isaac’s. A second, maybe two. Long enough to feel like centuries. She pushed a strand of hair from her face and murmured under her breath, almost to herself:

  “We’ll find another spot, it’s fine…”

  But Isaac’s voice, low and rough, cut through that attempt to retreat.

  “Hey.”

  A short word, simple — heavier than any order.

  Ivy shattered the tension instantly. She raised her hand, waving wide, calling out with a laugh:

  “Don’t be scared, Amber! We’re not biting today!”

  Agron joined her laughter, metal grin sparking in the sun as he waved at Anton.

  “You’re that kid who’s lucky at cards! Come on, let’s see if you’re lucky with a ball too!”

  For a moment Anton looked completely lost, his gaze bouncing between Hannah and Leonid, looking for a signal. Leonid, overloaded with bags, walked up to Hannah and, in that tired tone that was always half irony, half understanding, said:

  “Come on, boss. This was your plan.”

  Then he just walked past her, leaving a trail of smoke behind him, and with a glance invited Anton to follow. Anton grinned from ear to ear, nodded quickly, and ran toward them. Hannah stayed where she was, by the car. One more breath, one more second that lasted too long. Then she straightened her T–shirt and headed over herself — straight through the smell of grilled meat, the warmth of the sun, and the laughter that was getting under her skin whether she liked it or not.

  The tension evaporated the only way it ever does among people — through laughter, beer and barbecue smoke. Once the meat was sizzling and the sun had passed its midpoint in the sky, the borders lost meaning. There was no mafia and Directorate anymore — just people in T–shirts, with bottles in hand and ash on their fingers. With enough warmth and alcohol, every language becomes the same.

  Leonid stood next to Agron, in his natural habitat as a self–appointed expert, explaining “scientific methods” for perfect grilling. Cigarette glowing between his fingers, he used the other hand to demonstrate motions as if giving a lecture on the anatomy of kebabs. Agron laughed from deep in his chest, his voice tearing the air, and every smack on Leonid’s shoulder nearly knocked him over. Leonid swayed, but didn’t give up — kept talking stubbornly, with a smile that cracked his usual seriousness.

  In another life, the two of them would probably have been friends.

  Ivy and Anton were tossing the ball a little further away in the grass. She was surprisingly strong for her slight frame, each hit precise and rhythmic. Anton tried to copy her, but the ball kept veering off, sending her into theatrical despair as she grabbed her head and laughed until tears came.

  “Wrong wrist!” she’d shout between laughs, demonstrating the motion, and Anton watched her like a student watching a master, determined to get a perfect serve.

  On their patch of grass there were no winners — just the game, the sun, and youth.

  Isaac sat a little apart, leaning against a tree. The beer bottle glinted in his hand, and his gaze floated somewhere between the river and the smoke rising above the grill. His eyes were half–closed, not from tiredness, but from contentment — rare, quiet, human. Footsteps approached. Light, familiar. Hannah came up without a word, sat down on the grass beside him. They sat next to each other with no obligation to talk. And that, for the two of them, was already a conversation.

  Isaac reached into the small cooler, pulled out a beer, opened it with his teeth — casually, as if that were the most natural thing in the world — and handed it to her. She gave him a sideways look, but took it anyway, clinking bottles with him in a brief toast. The glass made a soft sound.

  “I didn’t picture you as the ‘go out for May Day’ type,” Isaac said, watching the smoke rise above the meat and blend into the clouds.

  Hannah took a sip and smiled, that half–smile that always looked like it was hiding classified information.

  “I’m on a mission,” she said seriously.

  He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised.

  “What mission?”

  She met his gaze and, for the first time that day, let her smile escape her control.

  “A mission to have fun.”

  For a moment, nothing could be heard but the wind in the leaves. Then Isaac’s smile widened, warm and genuine, the one he reserved for the rarest of moments. His voice trembled slightly as he laughed, and without thinking much about it, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.

  “Isaac…” she said quietly, more warning than complaint, but he didn’t care. He looked down at her with calm audacity.

  “What?” he said. “The mission is to have fun, isn’t it?”

  She nodded shyly, but she didn’t move away. They didn’t talk anymore. They just stayed like that, leaning against each other, while the sun sank lower and, in the distance, Anton’s laughter and Ivy’s shouts carried over the grass.

  Mafia and Directorate — two worlds that, for a brief moment, forgot they were on opposite sides. Under the same sky, with the same smoke and the same smell of grilled meat, they looked like ordinary people who’d, for once, found peace in a world that constantly forced them to fight.

  The sun sank into the river slowly, solemnly, as if it knew it was closing a chapter. The sky burned in gold and copper tones, the water sending that light back in a thousand broken reflections. Smoke from the grill still hung above the field, thin and sweet, mixed with the scent of grass and cigarette smoke. Their stomachs were full, conversations exhausted. Laughter softened into silence — that gentle kind that comes when both people and day are tired.

  Leonid shut the trunk, clapped his hands to dust them off, and leaned toward Hannah.

  “Whenever you’re ready, boss,” he murmured, with that informal respect only he could pull off.

  Then he opened the door, slid into the passenger seat and lit another cigarette.

  Anton was still waving to Agron and Ivy, like a kid saying goodbye to new friends at the end of summer camp.

  “Take care, kid!” Agron shouted through a laugh, metal glinting in his mouth under the last ray of light.

  Anton laughed and climbed into the car, taking that grin with him.

  On the other side, Agron was closing the trunk of Ivy’s car as she paused for a moment, leaning against the door. She watched Isaac the way someone watches a person they know too well.

  “Don’t forget to breathe,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him, and got in.

  Isaac stayed a few seconds more, leaning against the hood with the bottle in his hand. His eyes were fixed on Hannah. He didn’t have to say anything — the silence between them carried more meaning than any sentence could.

  Hannah approached, her steps slow and measured. She stopped in front of him, met his eyes, then crooked a finger, telling him to lean closer. Isaac bent down without a word, like a man who knows better than to argue with that tone.

  “I’ll leave the door unlocked tonight,” she said softly, her whisper carrying more weight than it had any right to.

  She smiled briefly, then turned away, clasped her hands behind her back and walked toward the car, her hair catching the last streaks of sunset.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Isaac stood there until her silhouette disappeared behind the car door. Only then did his shoulders drop as he drew a deep breath. When Ivy honked, he jolted, tossed the empty bottle into the grass, and headed for the car. He got into the passenger seat still wearing that smile — the kind that looks like a secret he has no intention of sharing.

  Hannah Adler, 02. May 2025

  That morning, Hannah woke up without an alarm. There were no obligations, no calls from the Directorate, no schedule that had to be obeyed. Just the soft light of morning slipping through the curtains and a silence that tasted like peace. She turned her head on the pillow and saw his face. Isaac was sleeping turned toward her, relaxed, almost boyishly calm, with a faint smile that made it look like he was dreaming something beautiful.

  In that moment, Hannah smiled in a way no one had ever seen — quietly, just for herself, without the mask, without the obligation to be strong.

  She moved closer, slowly, and touched his neck with the tips of her fingers. She traced a line from his collarbone to his shoulder, then let her fingers slide down his chest. Her movements were gentle, like she wasn’t waking a man, but reminding herself what it feels like to touch another living body.

  At first, Isaac only twitched an eyebrow, one eye opening, lazy and dark. A ray of sun cut his face in half, and a smile tugged at his lips, promising mischief. The hand that had been lying beside him a moment ago suddenly swung over her and started tickling.

  Hannah’s yelp turned into laughter — loud, contagious, the kind that lifted her shoulders and folded her body.

  “Isaac! Don’t!” she managed between breaths.

  He grinned, as if her laughter was the greatest pleasure in the world.

  “What is the word?” he teased, his fingers still searching for spots that would make her squirm.

  “Please, Isaac!” she finally got out, as the laughter melted into a breath.

  Then he stopped, lowered his hand, and pulled her closer. He hugged her tightly but without weight, pressed his forehead to hers. For a few moments, they breathed in the same rhythm, short and quiet, and the world stopped existing outside that touch. He kissed her once. Then again. A third time, brief, without feeling the need to say anything. When she pulled back and sat up, her hair spilled down over her shoulders.

  “Come on,” she said. “The whole day will pass while we’re just lying around here.”

  Her voice was calm, but that familiar businesslike resolve smoldered under it — not even a holiday morning could erase her habit of taking command. She started to get up, but he reached out, grabbed her wrist and tugged her back. The fall was soft, just enough to make her laugh when she landed on his chest again.

  “Where are you rushing?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “We’re not working today.”

  “No lazing around,” she countered, half serious.

  He looked at her from under his lashes, gave a brief smile and added:

  “Who said we’d be lazing?”

  She shook her head and stood up, gently, as if she were ending a game before he had the chance to win. She walked toward the bathroom, step by step, her black hair sliding down her back.

  Isaac watched her, propped up on the pillows. The light traced the lines of her body, and for a moment he felt like he was watching a dream he didn’t want to end. When the bathroom door closed, he reached for his cigarettes, took one out, lit it and leaned his head back. Smoke lazily filled the room, and the smile stayed on his lips. There was something in that smile he couldn’t quite decipher himself — a mix of calm, curiosity, and something dangerously close to happiness.

  After they both finished getting ready for the day, the apartment filled with the scent of fresh soap, steam from the shower, and silence. Hannah walked into the kitchen barefoot, her hair still slightly damp, pinned up in a messy twist. She opened one cupboard, then another, her eyes searching for the one thing that mattered more than anything else that morning — coffee. The upper cupboard doors creaked softly as she shut them, and she let out a small sigh of defeat.

  “There’s no coffee,” she said, more to herself than to him, turning back to the counter.

  Isaac was already sitting on a high stool, elbows resting on the edge, watching her with an almost invisible smile. There was a cigarette in his hand. He brought it to his lips, then silently held another one out to her across the counter.

  She took it without looking at him, with a quick movement of her hand. For a moment, the flame of the lighter was mirrored in her eyes as he held it out for her, and that small moment — that click, that brief flare — felt far too intimate for an ordinary gesture. Then he lit one for himself. Together they exhaled their first line of smoke, which rose in a thin column and spread through the room like the scent of a quiet habit.

  “So what?” he said at last, his voice carrying that perpetual calm. “Perfect excuse to sit in a café.”

  Hannah immediately shook her head. “You know we don’t do that.”

  “What?” he asked through the smoke, pretending to think. “Drink coffee?”

  She stepped closer to the counter, grabbed the ashtray, trying to restore the memory of order. As she tapped off the ash, she spoke quietly, but her tone had an edge.

  “Don’t joke, Isaac. You know what I mean.”

  He watched her movements calmly, like someone who knows how to wait for the walls to drop on their own. He reached out and touched her cheek with the tip of his finger, gently, almost lazily, then tilted her face toward his until her gaze met his.

  “One coffee, Hannah,” he said, as if it wasn’t an invitation but a promise.

  She held her breath for a moment. Then, like she was surrendering something more important than a decision, she nodded.

  “All right,” she said slowly, almost in a whisper. “One coffee.”

  There wasn’t just consent in that sentence — there was the quiet sense that no coffee with Isaac Phoenix would ever stay just a coffee.

  The café was quiet, elegant and too clean — the kind of place where every sound is filtered through crystal and vanilla scent. Glass lamps hung in a neat row, and sunlight broke on their edges, casting stripes across the marble floor. The waiters moved almost soundlessly in their gray uniforms, their motions as precise as ballet steps.

  Isaac sat in his chair like he didn’t belong there — dark shirt, elbows resting on the table, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Opposite him, Hannah, perfectly composed, in a white shirt that emphasized her cool posture and hid any trace of unrest.

  On the table between them, two cups of coffee. His — black, bitter, without sugar, the heavy aroma of roasted beans. Hers — lighter, with milk and a single cube of sugar she toyed with longer than necessary. For a while, neither of them spoke.

  They just looked at each other, while the scent of coffee and unspoken thoughts pooled between them. Isaac was the first to break the silence.

  “See?” he said, putting his cup down. “It’s not that bad.”

  Hannah took a small sip, carefully, quietly.

  “No,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. “It’s not bad.”

  They sat like that for a while — two people who had survived too much to call coffee just coffee. And yet, here, in this overpriced place, for a moment they looked like the most ordinary couple on a morning break.

  A soft chime sounded at the café door. The sound was gentle, but sharp enough to slice through the thin silence between Hannah and Isaac like a blade through silk. Hannah’s smile vanished instantly. Her cup trembled almost imperceptibly in her hand, and for a second it seemed like the coffee might spill. Her gaze slid past Isaac’s shoulder and locked onto the entrance.

  Isaac followed her expression, his brows drawing together.

  “What is it, Hannah, you look like you’ve seen a ghos—”

  He didn’t finish. In the doorway stood a tall, dark–haired man, broad–shouldered, walking with a quiet, assured step. Eyes the color of a frozen lake — sharp, cold, and too calculating to ever blink without reason.

  Killian Phoenix.

  Every step he took was followed by the sound of his cane striking the marble tiles, as if keeping time for everyone present. When he saw them — Hannah and Isaac — one corner of his mouth twitched. Not into a smile, but into something more dangerous. The flicker of recognition.

  They both dropped their gaze almost at the same time. As if even meeting Killian’s eyes could strip them bare — or worse, let him read them.

  Killian didn’t rush. He walked over with unbearable calm, the kind only a man has when he knows no one will tell him to stop. He grabbed a chair from the neighboring table and dragged it over to theirs, slowly. The scrape of wood against stone cut through all the noise in the café. No one dared look at him, let alone say anything. He set the chair between the two of them, backwards, and sat astride it, folding his arms across the backrest. He leaned his cane against the edge of the table with a soft tap. Then he looked at Hannah first — as if waiting for her to blink first — and then at Isaac.

  Their eyes met, and the air between the three of them turned as thick as smoke.

  A waiter appeared, trying to look professional.

  Killian gave him a look filled with that special kind of mild politeness that always carried both threat and charm.

  “Good day, sir,” he said, his voice like the soft ring of steel against glass. He lowered his eyes to the menu purely out of courtesy, then looked back up. “You have a very nice selection. One black coffee, please. No sugar. Thank you.”

  The waiter nodded and left. Killian let the silence fill the space again. He rested his chin on his crossed forearms, his gaze moving from one face to the other as if studying a map.

  “Please,” he said at last, quietly, almost gently. “Go on with your story. Don’t let me interrupt.”

  Hannah cleared her throat. Even that small sound seemed too loud in the expensive quiet. She tried to plaster professionalism back onto her face, the same mask she had used for years to hide any emotion.

  “Yes,” she said, her tone flat, almost businesslike. “I was just talking about my tailor.”

  Killian slowly straightened in his chair, then motioned toward her with an open palm, almost theatrically.

  “Tailor?” he repeated, as if the word itself amused him. “Ah, Miss Adler, I recently had to visit mine as well.”

  He paused when the waiter set the cup in front of him. A brief “thank you” and a smile that could disarm a witness under oath. He placed a banknote on the tray — an amount that insulted the real price of a single coffee — then looked back at Hannah.

  “I had a little incident, you see… on a certain job.” A short smile flickered over his face. “With your colleague. Shame — those were my favorite pair of trousers.”

  He glanced down at his thigh, where the wound still quietly existed under the fabric, then raised his eyes to hers again. Silence settled over the table for a moment. Isaac, who had been trying to look calm up to that point, spoke with a tone even he didn’t quite believe.

  “Yeah, I also… need to visit my tailor.”

  Hannah turned to him, her brows lifting, her expression somewhere between disbelief and a quiet plea for him to shut up. Killian slowly smiled, without sound, just the motion of his lips and a faint tightening around his eyes. Then his gaze slid to his younger brother.

  “Sorry, little brother,” he said softly, though there was nothing tender in his voice. “Did I hear that right? You have a tailor?”

  Isaac let out an unsteady laugh, took a sip of coffee to buy himself another second, but said nothing. Hannah used the moment to stand.

  “Mr. Phoenix,” she said briskly, already reaching for her bag and opening her wallet, “I was just leaving. I’ve got a lot of work waiting.”

  She laid money on the table with precise movement and picked up her coat. She didn’t look at him as she walked past, but she could feel his eyes tracking every step. Killian raised his cup and took another calm sip. Only when she reached the door did he speak, his voice a strange mixture of farewell and stab.

  “You’re very diligent, Miss Adler,” he said slowly, weighing each word. “Even on a holiday — you work.”

  The cup settled back onto the table. The soft click of porcelain against marble sounded like a full stop.

  When the door closed behind Hannah, the bell still trembled faintly in the silence. Killian watched the glass through which she had vanished, then stood without a word. The chair gave a soft squeak as he moved it, then he walked around the table and sat down beside Isaac. His hand — heavy and warm — came to rest across his brother’s shoulders. He pulled him closer, as if to share a secret, not a warning. The smell of coffee and smoke mingled with the expensive cologne Killian always wore, too persistent to be accidental.

  “Little brother,” he whispered, close enough that his breath brushed Isaac’s cheek, “you know I don’t care which girls you walk around with…”

  He took a slow sip of coffee, giving weight to every word.

  “But don’t mix that into business. Please.”

  Isaac stayed still, his gaze lowered, and only nodded once, without protest. Killian was quiet for one more moment, then let him go, straightened, and emptied the cup. When he stood, he leaned lightly on his cane, gave him a brief look with a faint smile and then, almost without a trace, walked out of the café.

  Leonid Frost, 03. May 2025

  The walls were breathing in half–darkness — thick, lazy air, saturated with the smell of tobacco, whiskey and leather. The curtains were drawn, and only thin golden threads of light broke through the fabric, falling over silk sheets that shifted with a soft rustle, like waves brushing the shore. Jazz from the gramophone braided itself with quiet female laughter, with soft bodies and sighs that filled the room.

  The same smile played on Leonid’s lips — half–irony, half–hedonism — and in his hand a glass where whiskey broke against ice.

  When the phone buzzed, the vibration on the nightstand cut through the room’s ease like a thin razor. Green eyes moved toward the screen, and the glass settled with a soft clink as the last cube of ice swirled against the glass. He slowly sat up, freeing himself from the touch of female hands that tried to keep him there, and reached for the phone.

  On the screen it said: Hannah Adler

  He pressed accept and raised the phone to his ear. His voice was hoarse from the night and smoke.

  “Hannah, don’t tell me we’ve got another barbecue with the kid?”

  On the other end — silence, then her voice. Calm but sharp, the kind that could cut through any joke.

  “Come over.”

  It didn’t sound like an invitation. It sounded like an order.

  For a moment he was quiet. The only other sounds were the women’s fading laughter and sighs in the background.

  “Give me half an hour… I mean an hour at le—” he started, but she cut him off.

  “Just come.”

  His smile pulled back, and the lazy warmth drained from his eyes. He held his breath for a second, then answered quietly:

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  He ended the call, drew on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. Then he stood, pulled on his trousers, buckled his belt and cast a glance over his shoulder.

  “Looks like the holiday is officially over, ladies.”

  The gramophone kept playing, but the jazz suddenly sounded quieter.

  The building was silent — the way only expensive buildings knew how to be. Hallways that smelled like wax and perfume, where footsteps bounced off marble without an echo.

  Leonid stepped out of the taxi, crushed his cigarette out on the edge of the curb and flicked it into a nearby ashtray. Then, hands in his pockets, he walked up the path and went inside. The elevator took him to her floor and he stopped in front of the heavy white door, knocking twice. They opened almost immediately. Hannah’s silhouette filled the frame — straight, composed, elegant. They didn’t exchange a single word; he just stepped inside, walked past her, and she quietly closed the door behind him.

  As he crossed the apartment, his gaze slid over the counter. Wine, a glass half–empty. Next to it, a pack of cigarettes, half gone. A crystal ashtray holding several crushed butts. Everything looked calm — but not settled.

  “Doesn’t look like you to be drinking in the middle of the day,” he said, without mockery, more as an observation.

  She walked past him without trying to answer. Only then did he really take in what she was wearing — not her usual armor of a buttoned shirt and tailored trousers. Instead, a long dress, elegant, soft lines of fabric that followed every movement. Her hair was curled slightly at the ends, just enough to give it volume, and at her ears small gold earrings that gleamed with each turn of her head.

  She stopped by the counter and picked up a cigarette. Held it between her fingers, rolling it, as if she needed an excuse to keep her hands busy. Leonid came closer, quietly, without theatrics, and pulled out his lighter. She leaned in, letting the flame graze the end of the cigarette. The copper glow slid across her dark eyes.

  “Come on, sit down, boss,” he said, gently pulling one of the bar stools toward her. “Then tell me what’s going on.”

  She sat, crossed her legs, and only then, with a long exhale, said:

  “Tyrion called.”

  Leonid raised his brows. He leaned back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest.

  “All right… is it about some mission, or…?”

  She shook her head immediately, and the hand holding the cigarette trembled almost imperceptibly.

  “No. For a lunch.”

  He didn’t laugh, even though that was his reflex. He knew that for her, family lunch was somewhere between a diplomatic crisis and a personal sentence. He gave a small nod and lit a cigarette for himself.

  “For the holiday?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. She nodded, stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray and took a sip of wine. Her gaze returned to him, direct, unblinking.

  “You have to come with me.”

  Leonid jerked slightly; even the cigarette in his hand paused for a moment.

  “Hannah… Mr. Adler didn’t call me to come.”

  She stepped closer, quietly, but with resolve.

  “Please, Leonid.”

  He looked at her for a while, trying to read the reason between the lines of her perfect posture. Then, as if surrendering, he nodded.

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  A faint smile slipped across her face as she turned away, already rotating the ashtray to empty it again. “We need to get you a better suit.”

  Leonid pinched a bit of his shirt between his fingers, looking at it like a kid caught without homework.

  “What? I think it’s quite charming.”

  Her smile was small but real — the kind that rarely appeared on her, and stayed even more rarely.

  The Adler family house was not a home — it was a monument.

  A light marble fa?ade rising high, with columns reaching upward like memorials to old times. The walls were wrapped in dark vines, and the grounds looked like they stitched together two realities: manicured architecture and tamed wildness. Through the thick curtains in the windows, the warm glow of expensive chandeliers could be seen. From the far side of the estate, the sound of a river murmured, cold and patient.

  Hannah and Leonid stepped out of the taxi. Gravel crunched under their shoes as they approached the massive doors. Hannah walked with measured steps, but Leonid recognized that tiny twitch in her shoulders — the sign of a body ready for a fight even when the soul is not. He placed a hand on her shoulder, gently but firmly.

  “Breathe, Hannah,” he said in a quiet, steady voice.

  Her gaze trembled for a moment, then settled. She nodded, slotting herself back into her professional armor.

  The door opened, and on the threshold stood the butler, in a flawless uniform, white gloves gleaming under the entry light.

  “Miss Adler,” he said with a bow, a tone that was both respect and ritual. “It is always a pleasure to see you. Welcome home.”

  Then he turned to Leonid. “Sir.”

  Leonid answered with a small nod, and together they stepped inside.

  The mansion was silent, except for the echo of their steps on the black marble floor. The walls were decorated with portraits of old Adlers, every one of them bearing the same look: cold, calculating, unshakable. The air smelled of old wood, wine and expensive cigars.

  The butler led them down a long corridor to the grand dining room, whose doors were heavy and deeply carved. When he opened them, the room already breathed the silence of power. At the table, under a crystal chandelier, sat Tyrion Adler.

  Tall, broad–shouldered, with graying hair and beard. His dark eyes were sharp as steel, and his face bore features that had only hardened with years. On his hands — tattoos of old seals and runes, partly hidden by expensive cuffs. He was the kind of man who looked like he commanded even when he was seated.

  When they entered, he stood; the chair creaked under his weight.

  “Hannah,” he said, his voice both greeting and command. A voice that could ripple the surface of a drink.

  “Tyrion,” she answered, just as calm, but without warmth.

  “It’s good to see you home, Hannah. You could call your old father more often,” he said, resting heavy palms on her shoulders.

  The smile she gave him was exactly the one she’d learned long ago — diplomatic, perfectly rehearsed, empty.

  “Work,” she replied shortly, as if that one word explained everything.

  Tyrion’s gaze shifted to Leonid. It took him a few moments to place him, then his eyes flickered as recognition clicked.

  “Mr. Frost,” he said, offering a hand with an unexpectedly strong grip. “A pleasant surprise.”

  Leonid matched it, firm but controlled. “Mr. Adler, thank you for having me.”

  Tyrion laughed, deep, from his gut — more like distant thunder than amusement.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t sleep, right? Hannah cycles through her associates so fast a man can’t keep track.” He let go and clapped him on the shoulder, almost fatherly, but with a weight that felt nothing like tenderness. “Business partner one, two, five… but you’re holding up well, boy.”

  Leonid answered with his usual ironic, confident half–smile.

  “Mr. Adler, I try to be as resistant to restructuring as possible.”

  Tyrion laughed again, the sound filling the room like a breeze from an unknown direction. Then he spread his hands toward the table.

  “Sit, kids. Lunch will be served shortly.”

  He showed them their places — Hannah to his left, Leonid to his right, as if everything had been planned in advance. The servants brought in dishes quietly, almost soundlessly, but even the clink of porcelain and the sound of alcohol being poured into glasses felt too loud in the room. The smell of roast and cigar smoke mixed with wax and oak.

  Tyrion was the first to raise his glass, tilting it lightly to study the color of the whiskey in the chandelier light.

  “The Directorate, the Directorate…” he muttered mostly to himself, then looked at Hannah. “I assume you’re buried again under reports and calls from the government?”

  “Of course,” she said simply, sitting straight, without a single movement that betrayed discomfort. “Everything has to be under control.”

  Tyrion chuckled, briefly, a sound more like a heavy impact than genuine joy.

  “Under control… just like your mother used to keep things.” He raised his glass and took a sip. “Only, she knew when to rest too.”

  Hannah looked down at her plate, saying nothing. Her fingers tightened, just slightly, around the stem of her wine glass.

  “Are you at least taking the vitamins I sent?” he continued, half concern, half interrogation.

  “Yes, Tyrion.”

  “Good. And are you still driving that old car? You know, I sent in a request for new armored ones. You could take one.”

  “I don’t need it, Tyrion,” she answered calmly, lowering her gaze into the wine.

  He nodded, turned to Leonid, his stare sharpening to size him up like an opponent at a poker table rather than a guest.

  “And you, Frost, I assume you drive something faster?”

  Leonid smiled, cutting through the tension with practiced nonchalance.

  “Mostly whatever survives my braking.”

  Tyrion laughed — for the first time, honestly.

  “Good, good… at least someone in this room remembers what it means to live.”

  Hannah took a sip of wine, the thin golden gleam catching on her lips. She met her father’s eyes. “Life isn’t a race.”

  “And it isn’t a dead race either, Hannah,” he answered, setting his glass down with a dull thud. “Only losers stay in place.”

  For a while, the only answer was the sound of cutlery against porcelain. A servant refilled whiskey for Tyrion and Leonid, and wine for Hannah. The only other noise was the soft skimming of fabric and the distant wind rattling the windows.

  “Are you at least going out with someone?” Tyrion asked, as if reading from a generic father’s script.

  Hannah briefly lowered her gaze.

  “I don’t have time.”

  Leonid smirked under his breath and immediately jumped in.

  “That’s why I’m here to remind her about her social life, Mr. Adler.”

  Tyrion looked at him from under his brows, weighing him like a card he didn’t quite trust yet.

  “I doubt anyone can remind Hannah of anything she doesn’t want to remember.”

  Leonid shrugged and took a sip of whiskey.

  “I can at least try.”

  Tyrion’s smile was short, but enough to soften the air for a heartbeat.

  “You’ve got spirit, Frost. I like that.”

  For a moment, they all fell quiet. Cutlery, rustling napkins, the flicker of the fire in the hearth — all of it merged into the rhythm of the silence between them. Hannah let her glass slide slightly on the table, then added calmly:

  “You know they don’t let you choose your path freely in the Directorate, Tyrion. We pick the route that brings results.”

  Tyrion just nodded, studying his whiskey.

  “Results, always results…” he murmured, then looked up at her, softer now, almost wistful. “Just don’t forget who you’re doing it all for in the end.”

  Leonid brushed her with a glance. He knew she wouldn’t answer. So he, almost ceremonially, raised his glass.

  “For those who still believe in the ideal of order, I’d say.”

  Tyrion clinked his glass to his, and Hannah just looked into her wine as if trying to see the end of the conversation at the bottom.

  The food arrived in perfect silence. Two waiters in white gloves set silver platters, and the smell of roast meat, wine and expensive spices spread through the room. The clink of cutlery replaced conversation. Hannah cut her meat into small, controlled bites, as if precision could save her from every other thought. Leonid sat quietly, letting the whiskey blur the edges of his vision. Tyrion, even in silence, spoke. His presence filled the room like a heavy cologne — old power, old rule, and the expectation that others fall quiet around it.

  “I don’t remember the last time you took a vacation,” he said eventually, his tone more diagnosis than question. “Even I, at your age, knew when to stop.”

  “I have no need for a vacation,” she answered, her voice low but firm.

  Tyrion raised an eyebrow, giving her that look only a father can give a daughter — half pride, half disbelief.

  “Of course you do. You just think you don’t, because you don’t know anything else. You’re too much like your mother.”

  The knife in her hand stopped exactly mid–cut. Even the wine in her glass trembled. Tyrion drank his own without any awareness of the wound he’d just opened.

  “Same shoulders, same calm,” he continued. “At least she knew when to breathe. You know, you sometimes forget.”

  Leonid broke the silence with a cough, more out of instinct than necessity.

  “It’s hard to breathe at work, Mr. Adler,” he said, trying to soften the tone. “Too many papers, not enough oxygen.”

  Tyrion chuckled at that, but not like a man who truly finds something funny — more like someone who knows times have changed, but doesn’t intend to yield to them.

  “Papers are a luxury. In my time, you breathed smoke. If you survived, you knew you mattered.”

  Hannah laid her cutlery down on the plate, carefully, so the metal wouldn’t clink.

  “In your time,” she said evenly, “maybe you could survive without breathing.”

  Tyrion looked at her, really looked — and in his gaze there was no anger, only the sadness of a man who sees himself in someone he no longer understands.

  “You know,” he said softly, almost defensively, “if your mother could see you now… she’d say you became what she wanted to be.”

  Something in the air cracked at that. Hannah nodded, not in thanks — but to endure. She picked up her glass and drained it. Leonid, just in case, refilled his own. Lunch ended without an official conclusion.

  No one suggested dessert, but the waiters brought sweets anyway — out of habit, the same way everything in that house functioned out of habit. Silver forks clinked softly against porcelain, wine and whiskey were poured again into crystal glasses, and the whole scene looked like something out of an old portrait — perfect, static, dead.

  Hannah kept her eyes on the table — not because she feared her father, but because she would understand him if she met his gaze. And that would be too much. Leonid quietly wiped at the ashtray with his sleeve, because he didn’t know where else to put his hands. He felt like a stranger in a museum where the statues were alive but weren’t supposed to move.

  Tyrion sat upright, perfectly composed, fingers interlaced in front of him. There was no expression on his face — only the habit of the world moving according to his silence.

  “It’s good to see you, Hannah,” he said at last. His voice was gentle, but that gentleness carried the weight of everything left unsaid. “I always knew you’d be better than me.”

  Hannah smiled — a smile that belonged more to a mirror than to another person.

  “That’s why I’m in the Directorate, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Because you’re an Adler,” he replied.

  After that, the only sounds were the rustle of the tablecloth and chairs being moved back. Leonid stood first, took his jacket from the chair back and looked at Hannah — a look that didn’t ask permission, only offered: shall we? She nodded, and as they left, Tyrion added:

  “Drop by more often, Hannah. The house is too quiet without you.”

  On the threshold, Hannah turned for a moment. She looked at her father, then at the portrait of her mother on the wall — those same eyes she saw in the mirror — and for a second she thought the figure in the painting moved, exhaled through time and whispered her name.

  “Close the door, Leonid,” she said softly, without looking back. He did, gently — but the sound of the lock echoed like the end of the world.

  The taxi stopped right in front of her building. Night had already slipped into the city — that kind of silence when even the streets seem tired, and the shop windows look like someone’s forcing them to stay awake.

  Hannah stepped out first, the cold air cooling her face, the sharp clack of high heels ringing briefly on the pavement. Leonid got out behind her and paid the driver, then lingered by the entrance while the elevator doors waited for someone to press the button.

  They were quiet for a while. Then Hannah turned her head toward him. There was no professional mask on her face, none of the Directorate’s edge — just a weariness that would have been human, if she ever allowed herself to be.

  “It’s late,” she said softly, looking at him from under her lashes. “Stay here. We’ll go in together tomorrow.”

  Leonid shook his head with a faint smile. “Don’t worry, I need some air. I’ll walk.”

  She nodded at that, her gaze still resting on him, her fingers tracing the edge of her bag as she said:

  “You know… it was nice that you were there with me. Today. And in general.”

  He looked at her, and for a moment his eyes softened more than he would have liked.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I was.”

  For a while they just stood there, close, facing each other. Then she simply turned and headed for the entrance. He smiled, and it wasn’t his usual cynical smile — it was quiet and honest.

  “Good night, Hannah.”

  She closed the door behind her, and the hallway light briefly lit his figure. He stayed there for a few seconds more, then lit a cigarette and started down the street, the smoke blending into the stillness of the late night.