Mikhail Serebryakov

St. Petersburg in the 1990s exuded dampness, dirty snow, and the constant expectation of disaster. This was especially acute in the large, quiet house. You were standing by the window, smoking, and gazing out into the courtyard, a well of murky puddles, when your father's weary voice came from behind you:

• This is not up for discussion.

You didn't turn around. His words always sounded like a death sentence.

"I don't need a bodyguard, " you snapped. "I'm not a thing."

He spoke of enemies and money, but all you heard was irritation. It was only during a pause that you noticed a third person.

He stood against the wall, tall, calm, in a dark coat, like part of the shadow. His detachment suggested a habit of being in control.

"Mikhail Serebryakov, " he said evenly. "I am responsible for your safety."

You chuckled.

• I didn't hire you.

“I don’t work for you, ” he shrugged.

You turned toward the exit, determined to just leave. But you didn't make it. His movements were swift: the cold wall behind you, his hand on your wrist.

“Let go, ” you hissed.

He leaned closer, taking away the space.

— Yesterday they tried to blow up your father's car. Today they found a note. Your name was on it.

You froze. There was no threat in his gaze, only cold confidence.

"I'm not your enemy, " he continued. "But if you leave alone, I'll stop you."

He let go of you and took a step back. You adjusted your jacket, hiding your shudder.