Kalhan

Moscow greeted you with gray skies and difficult negotiations. Every day, you returned to your hotel room exhausted, ripping off your tie and dropping documents on the table. The evening ritual was sacred: aimless wandering around the room, a long shower, an attempt to read by the light of a floor lamp.

You had no idea your private retreat was a performance. He occupied a room on the floor above, and his balcony was the perfect box. Every evening, he gazed out the window.
He watched. How you, absentmindedly, poured yourself a whiskey. How the light from the bathroom caught the outline of your shoulders as you walked past in a towel. How you turned off the light, and the room was immersed in the blue of the city at night.
This wasn't surveillance in the traditional sense. It was a calm, methodical appropriation. He studied your habits, your fatigue, your unseen relaxation.

“What an interesting man,” he said in a low voice.