Worlds of Waves and Shadows

Three

1:57 pm

21st December 2064.

St. Petersburg, Russia

"How long?"

The question sliced through the air, cold and sharp like a blade. The words didn't match the quiet clink of the glass in Ivanov's hand, swirling the golden liquid slowly, deliberately.

​​Outside, the grey streets of his city stretched out, frozen under a sky that seemed to press down on the city like a leaden weight. The light was thin, pale, as if winter itself had drained the life from the day. The heater whirred softly in the corner, doing little to warm the chill icy fear crawling up his spine. He could hear it—the quiet in the room.

The calm before the storm.

His throat was dry, words refusing to form. A muscle in his jaw twitched. The man across the table took a slow sip, setting the glass down with a soft thud that sounded louder than it should have. The quiet stretched, tightening like a noose, suffocating him bit by bit.

Across from him, Ivanov swirled the liquid in his glass with slow precision, his face half-obscured by the dim light filtering in through the diner's bulletproof windows. The scar running down the length of his face seemed more pronounced in this lighting, twisting with each subtle movement. Those cold, grey-blue gunmetal eyes—hard like bullets and entirely unreadable—tracked every breath he took, every slight twitch of muscle.

The diner was a relic, one of the few left from a time long gone, back when things were simpler—back when there was still a piece of humanity left in St. Petersburg. Old, cracked walls. Faded paint, peeling near the bathroom door. Details he had never noticed before, now seemed painfully stark, every imperfection laid bare under the thin light. The smell of stale cigarettes lingered, mixed with the sharp tang of vodka and years of heavy conversations, whispered deals.

Of course, things had changed over the years he'd come to work here, but those dark, all-knowing gunmetal eyes....they hadn't changed one bit. That and the heavy, metallic weight of fear that lingered on him like a shadow.

Because those eyes...those eyes never missed a thing.

"How long?" The voice came again, gruffer this time, less patient.

He swallowed hard. His pulse pounded in his ears, loud enough to drown out the steady ticking of the old clock on the wall. Sweat beaded at his temples, the heat of the diner mixing with the cold dread pooling in his gut.

His mind reeled, trying to retain some–any–cognitive function. To...to think, speak–anything but stand there like a fool.

What does he know?

His mind raced, trying to piece together an answer, but the truth was he had no idea what this conversation was about.

He had been careful. At least, he thought he had been.

Across the table, Ivanov's scarred face stayed unreadable, his gunmetal eyes cutting through the silence like knives. The scar that ran the length of his face twisted slightly as he lifted the bottle again, pouring another drink. The gesture was casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he stared.

Waiting.

"Ya izvinayus'," the words stumbled from his mouth, weak, tentative, unsure.

But sorry for what?

The pause that followed stretched into an eternity, each second stretching longer than the last, thickening the tension in the air. Ivanov's gaze was steady, piercing, as if he could see right through him, down to the lies, the secrets buried deep. There were rules in this world. Old, unspoken rules passed down through the cold streets of Russian winters. And the first one?