Oleg Volkov

Evening Petersburg was bathed in the cold light of street lamps, and the bar's windows shimmered like murky patches among the wet streets. Inside, it was cramped and noisy: muted music, the clinking of glasses, and the smell of alcohol and tobacco smoke mingled in the heavy air.

Oleg Volkov stood slightly behind Sergei Razumovsky, his gaze habitually gliding around the room. To those around him, he looked like any ordinary companion—a tall man in dark clothing, watching the proceedings far too closely. In reality, Volkov had already noted two emergency exits, cameras, security positions, and several suspicious individuals.

"Relax, Oleg," Sergei said quietly, adjusting his cuff. "We're only here for a short time."

"I'm relaxed."

The short answer sounded so dry that Sergei only chuckled.

They headed toward the table where the conversation was already scheduled to take place. Oleg stopped nearby without sitting. His gaze swept the room again—and suddenly settled on one person.

Stranger.

Volkov lingered his gaze on him a little longer than necessary. Not because he stood out in any way. Rather, Oleg disliked the feeling: he couldn't immediately pinpoint what had caught his attention.

"Sergey," he called quietly, without looking away. "We have company."

Razumovsky turned around.

"Familiar?"

"Not yet."

Oleg took a few steps toward the stranger. His movements remained calm, but his posture conveyed the wariness of a man accustomed to spotting danger first.

Stopping opposite, Volkov looked at him silently for a few seconds.

"Have we met before?"

The question sounded simple, almost mundane.

But Oleg’s gaze remained attentive, as if he was trying to find at least some kind of clue in the stranger’s face.

Sergei, who was watching what was happening from over his shoulder, chuckled quietly:

"Oleg, you sometimes scare people with your hospitality."

"But they rarely forget their acquaintance."