SAFEHOUSE

The long day was at last drawing to its close. The languid summer was shrouded beneath a veil of tender clouds, and all between heaven and earth was steeped in an enigmatic shade of lilac. Only through the rifts in the sky lingered a faint gilded sheen, where a single shaft of midnight sunlight pierced through and gilded the river gold.

Across the water glided a dark silhouette, its massive wings spread wide. As it settled gently onto the surface, a waiting bird swam to meet it, stretching its slender neck to nuzzle its returning mate with soft, contented coos. These two geese swayed their tail feathers as they twirled on the gentle ripples, oblivious to the dangers of the world.

Not far off, someone watched them with unwavering focus. He stayed motionless, showing no sign of impatience, as if completely mesmerized by the ancient ritual, while the birds shared their catch and preened each other's feathers.

In another world, the hunter might have lowered his gun.

But in this one, he had gotten hungry.

A spinning gust swept past, a panicked cry rang out, and a crimson lotus bloomed upon its reflection. Even the devoted lover took flight in terror, its wings flapping in frantic haste.

Ogata rose from the grass, a hand already reaching toward the top of his head as he brushed the plastered strands of hair from his forehead. It came to him that no one in the entire wilderness had witnessed that clean shot, so he sullenly moved his hand away.

It wasn't a big deal for a seasoned shooter, anyway. He wasn't even sophisticated enough to ride out the clumsy rifle's kick when the 7.62x54R's raw violence slammed back against his shoulder. It might have been the reason for that bruising pain between his muscles right now.

When he had his palm against the source of the pain, he traced it back to the side of his ribcage and remembered how they got there.

He remembered the way those hard arms had wrapped around his torso, fingers digging deeply into his waist just so he wouldn't slip from the jolting ride. He was almost mortified to be reminded of the feeling that had flooded his body when he was trapped between the warm muscles of a fast-running horse and a chest against which a lungful of breath was buried, huffed out desperately from a hot mouth and lingering wet against his earlobe. And the worst was the way his limbs had betrayed him, reaching toward that clutch—That was for escape, he had already found a reason to justify it.

Ogata shook his head, as if that could dispel his troubles.

He walked toward where the bird should have fallen. The bank was thick with grey willows, their branches low and spreading. Wind had scattered their fluff across the water, where it gathered and drifted away in patches.

From a distance, he spotted the floating castle of feathers, almost on the verge of being swept away by the current.

He stepped quickly onto the reeds and clamped one hand down on the massive fowl just before it was too late. The creature was already so heavy it was almost too much to lift from the water. He grabbed it by the neck, gave a heave, and slung it across his back.

But, just as he was about to leave, something caught his attention. He looked closer and realized what was hidden among the reeds. He could make out a smooth, jade-like gleam among its depths from a distance. There, nestled inside, were several enormous eggs.

A less greedy man might have stopped there, content with the spoils of his hunt. But Ogata wasn't driven by greed. He simply came to realize how hard it must be to cook such a big, old bird. Its meat must be too tough and stringy to chew, especially for an invalid with weak teeth. As someone who had once suffered such difficulties, he knew well the comfort of soft food.

And those eggs were so alluring.

At that moment, the lure of those big eggs erased any lingering hesitation about showing too much care. Ogata dropped the weight on the bank, rolled up his trouser legs, and waded toward the nest.

The goose eggs looked so fragile that for a moment he just didn't know where to put them. His pockets were too small, and he didn't have enough hands. After a few thoughts, Ogata unbuttoned his shirt, slipped it off, and tied the collar together like a sack. He then picked up the eggs one by one, placed them carefully inside, and tied the fabric securely around his waist.

Just as he was about to lift his prize, a harsh cry erupted from behind.

His heart clenched at the thought of having left his rifle on the bank along with the goose. Before he could turn, something struck his lower back with surprising speed. The blow wasn't heavy, nor was the weapon sharp, but the sheer desperation behind it forced a guttural cry from him.

He swung a fist, knocking the attacker aside. But as the attacker began to gaggle, he found out that it was, as a matter of fact, the other goose. Instead of wisely fleeing after the earlier kill, it had returned to the nest.

Ogata had no desire to fight with this creature, especially unarmed and bare-chested. But even if he tried to leave the fight, the beast blocked his way to the shore. Against his reluctance, the goose was beating its wings, stretching out its neck, ready to fight to the death.

Still, Ogata had no intention of giving up those eggs.

"What a bother," he muttered, as he began to sidestep along the bank. "You could have saved yourself..."

He kept his distance from the angry bird, always facing it, swinging a fist in front of its head whenever it tried to peck. He then subtly shifted his position until at last he had placed himself between the bird and the shore. He began to edge backward, and the goose kept pace, never taking its eyes off him. Soon as he had enough room, he flung the shirt-wrapped eggs toward the bank. They landed safely, but that motion was all it took to trigger their rightful owner.

A massive shadow lunged forward, opening its beak. The first few strikes landed quick and sharp but couldn't get a grip on those slick muscles. Then the bird changed its tactics and clamped down hard on the calf.

Ogata let out a yelp. He kicked and struck the creature on the head, but the goose refused to let go. It held on, tightening its grip as though releasing would mean losing everything it had left. Ignoring the vise-like pain in his leg, Ogata grabbed its neck with one hand and drove his fist into its head.

But that only made things worse.

The bird went wild. Its wings exploded outward, beating the water into a froth. Mud and silt erupted from the bottom, swirling black and thick. Ogata felt his foot sink, his knee twist, his whole body tilt sideways as the ground beneath them began to swirl. His hands scrambled for something to hold onto, until he crashed down in the churning muck.

Muddy water splashed up into his face. Some of it even got into his mouth. The taste of algae bloomed on his tongue, thick and rotten. It was disgusting.

And the goose was still biting him.

That, in an instant, sent Ogata into a blind rage. He wrapped his other hand around the goose's throat as well and squeezed with all his might.

"Fine! You want to die so badly?" he roared, the words tearing out of him before he realized he was venting at a bird. He tightened his grip, both hands pressing down with relentless force. "I'll give you that!"

Every muscle from his shoulders down to his fists tightened into the grip. His knuckles went bone-white, veins bulging along his bare forearms. But the beast thrashed harder, wrenching his leg from side to side until the flesh began to tear. Ogata let out a roar, reared back, and drove his fist into the goose's head one last time.

The blow sent a shock wave rattling up his arm, and the beak finally loosened.

Ogata gasped for air, sweat and mud plastered to his heaving chest. His hands trembled from the effort, but at least—at least—it was over.

Then he heard a soft shuffling from the bank. He tensed up, looking for the next intruder. Someone crawled out of the willows, as if he had been watching from there for a while.

For much of his life, Ogata had wished he had concealed his nature better. And this time he found himself no less challenged to account for that ugly spectacle of hand-to-hand slaughter, even when this audience wasn't troubled by the carnage.

Ogata pried the dead bird from his leg and struggled to his feet. He knew he must have looked like a mess. When he had taken the rifle, the implication had been clear that his return would be victorious. Now that he had held up his end, it all lacked a certain…theatricality.

He shifted away from those busy eyes.

"It's there," he said, referring to the rifle. Surely that was the most important thing a sniper would care about when separated from it. And the geese too, if the Russian man cared to tend to their tough meat. The thought of unwrapping the bundle and presenting the exquisite eggs suddenly felt unbearably humiliating, having fought such a grand battle for such a meager spoil. Or he could simply step on them, crush them before the other man found out.

He scrambled toward the bank, but a hand grabbed his arm and stopped him right there.

Instinctively, Ogata tried to pull away, but it was strong and stubborn, with the same force that had once pinned him to the horseback and left bruises in him. And now, joined by its twin, those hands started to move with a startling gentleness, sliding down to the red marks left by the beak.

Ogata followed their track and turned his head to look down. He found vivid red welts running from his lower back, disappearing into the serge and emerging again from the bottom of his pant leg.

It wasn't really that painful, didn't require much attention, and certainly didn't need any…administration. But the Russian soldier was heavy-handed, his thumb circled over the swollen spots, sending up a strange soreness that was even harder to handle.

Ogata hissed. He tried to say something before the other man could make up his mind to do something truly stupid. But his voice went timid, and his eyelid dropped lower, struggling to find a proper place to rest his sight within the small proximity of the taller man. He had to distract himself by staring at places irrelevant to his predicament, but he was level with the other man's chin. He could catch the remnant of his own mauling. And if he lingered there for one more moment, he would see the newly formed scabs, over which grew soft short brown stubs, already sharp and itchy against the pink, tender flesh.

He shifted his gaze away as if he had been burnt. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder. Under his palm, the shirt wrapped over an unbearable warmth that he had to push away.

And the sudden shove earned him a pained grunt. Ogata, after all the days he had walked with the other traveler, was belatedly reminded of the earlier bullet he had sent through there. He looked beyond the wound, finally, to the man who bared it, now twisting his handsome features over the sting.

Like a night creeper before its flying predator, in the next moment, his searching gaze was caught between a pair of still wings in the final moment of their descent. In the massive shadow cast by their width, he could not count on his psyche to issue a command to flee. Or, if dishonesty had met its crushing defeat, he would admit the attack that was about to strike.

He waited. He could see something unreadable shifted in that man's eyes as they narrowed. That hand dropped lower, and…moved away.

What did not exactly meet his expectations was that the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tin case of balm. Many such cases spoke to the necessity of field provisions, but Ogata couldn't fathom the need to carry ointment for every conceivable situation. Still, the soothing rubs into his back did ease the worst of the soreness, and he decided to ignore the tell-tale label that gave away its original purpose for horses.

Ogata dragged the geese by the neck as they walked to the camp, and he might have kicked a stone skittering ahead of him in a frustration he preferred not to name.

Fortunately, his companion was too occupied with juggling the eggs in his hands to notice any change in his mood. By the time they reached the site, he presented his afternoon's work. Beside a pile of firewood, he had already notched two trees, wedged a long stick between them, and layered branches across it. His coat was draped over the top, barely covering half of the makeshift shelter.

Ogata didn't comment on it.

He went to deal with the geese, skewering the meat and setting the eggs to boil. He then absently patted his pockets, wondering where he had stashed the last of his salt for seasoning.

But when he turned around, a vein pulsed in his temple upon what his fellow traveler was doing. That man had somehow managed to tie the corners of Ogata's old cloak and stuff a pillow full of goose down. He was now leaning over it, notebook perched on his knee, sketching away with unfocused ease, looking entirely too cozy and infuriatingly useless.

Ogata pushed himself up from the cookers and closed the distance between them. Before the other man could even register the movement, Ogata snatched the sketchbook from his hands.

Those blue eyes widened in a flash of panic, and those hands instantly reached out to reclaim it. But he quickly stopped himself, sinking back down with a relieved exhale.

Ogata's gaze dropped to the pages, his brow furrowed as he discovered that most of the paper had been smeared by water damage. Only a few recent pages survived. He flipped to one and paused. His breath hitched slightly at the familiar topography, because he had seen the original sketch earlier that day.

Just as his mind began to wander back to the smeared, frantic lines across the church ceiling, a dull ache started to throb behind his vision. There was something deeper between those lines, something that was only for another troubled soul to see. Or perhaps it was the bloody, stained-glass light of the church, the way all the lines were swirled into an endless abyss—

He had to close his only good eye and rest for a moment, then opened again for the clean copy before him.

Beneath the page lay the work of a skilled sketcher, recording the roads and rivers with honest precision, while small marks denoted their previous travel, and further along, little arrows indicated tactical routes that might save time. The artist seemed to plan their journey with a sense of eager exploration, unless his interest lay in something else entirely.

He had noticed, of course he had. He was tormented by the exact same craving, even when he tried to push the feeling away. Even though it had long since vanished from his sight, the thought of it still haunted him from time to time. He knew the other man was the reason the pouch was missing. Yet, if he were to confront him, this fragile illusion of an alliance would shatter at the first touch.

And now, it seemed, its shadow had spread.

If that was what he wanted, then Ogata understood him.

And if it was something else... that might be worse, in its own way.

A dull, restless frustration gnawed at him. He had no desire to test human nature; the risk of indulging in his own foolish assumptions might only invite a cruel answer. What he needed was a silent follower, someone who would work hard at the slightest hint of a promise.

But he asked anyway. He had never learned to leave a thing alone.

"You want it badly, don't you?" he said, keeping his voice conversational. "You've been drawing this all evening."

The other man tilted his head. He didn't grasp the question at all.

"The gold," Ogata supplied. "Isn't that why you're following me?"

The man's expression flickered, a brief flash of hurt before settling into something unreadable. He reached for the sketchbook, but Ogata held it just out of reach.

"Listen. You might think you're being useful, but don't overestimate yourself. I don't need—"

The other man looked like he was about to make a rejection, but Ogata cut him off. His mouth opened on its own, the cruel words flowing out with practiced ease. "Maybe I allowed it so far, but I don't really need you."

Perhaps, this time, he felt a twinge of mercy. He added an explanation, "I don't even know you. Would you trust someone like that?"

The man shifted his gaze away, his expression faltering as if he were wrestling with the exact same question himself. Slowly, he began to fumble with the small leather pouch that always hung from his belt. From it, he produced an even smaller print and handed it to Ogata.

Ogata had no choice but to open that travel permit. Glued onto the page was a tiny photograph of nobody else but a much younger version of the man himself. He looked barely grown out of a boy, his hair shorter and his features softer, though his expression was frozen in a dull stupor during the long wait for the photo to develop. In a way, the shadow of the person from before the war was almost lost, but not entirely.

On the next page, most of the official text was printed, with blank sections left to a scribbly, tangled scrawl.

These were hardly the Cyrillic letters Ogata had grown familiar with. His own handwriting was round and obedient, in the manner of a humble apprentice. But this one before him was nothing like that. It was a wild, fluent flow of ink. Careless, reckless, just like the man himself used to be.

Even though he hated to admit it, Ogata cleared his throat.

"I can't read," he muttered, and then quickly corrected himself, just in case there was a misunderstanding. "I can't read this handwriting."

And though his admission felt like a defeat, his strange enemy merely raised an eyebrow. A terrible smile tore across his lips, pulling painfully at the closing scars. Yet, he was quick, his fingers darting out to catch Ogata’s hand once more.

Against Ogata's unguarded palm, the man began to write his answer.

Good eve...ning, nice to... mee...t you...

Ogata read the scratching letters as they formed from those fingers, growing impatient.

My name i...s...

Ogata held his breath, his muscles tensing until the final strokes were carved into his skin.

Vasily.

And the man lifted his face up, tilted his head, waiting for the same introduction in return.

Ogata smiled, coldly. He took a step back, wrenching his hand free from that firm grasp.

"Okay, Vasily," he said, "Now go eat your fucking egg soup."

The game morsel was just as rubbery as expected. Ogata chewed it with mechanical difficulty, forcing each swallow down his throat. But at least someone was enjoying his meal, making loud slurps with the hot soup. Halfway through the meager meal, Ogata could no longer stand the bird or the man and just abandoned the campfire, deciding it was better to just go to sleep. He lay down, his head sinking into the softness of the feather pillow. The makeshift shelter was just enough to block out the shimmery expanse of the night sky.

Betwixt lucidity and slumber, he barely registered a shift in weight. Someone sat down near him, then lay beside him, trying to share the softness of the pillow.

It would have been just another night of bad dreams, had he grown accustomed to them. But this time, the nightmare had grown different.

The earth split open before him, a great fissure running down to the heart of the world, and from the well at its bottom rose a tide of molten gold. It surged upward with the violent force of a volcanic eruption, flooding the air. And then, almost impossibly, the torrent froze in midair, crystallizing into the colossal silhouette of a tree.

A tree with branches that stretched outward like open, welcoming arms. And its leaves were whispering in a language he almost understood, inviting him closer, closer, to hear what it had to say.

He stood rooted to the spot like a detached observer, watching the spectacle with an analytical dread. So it had begun, he thought. I am starting to have these dreams, too.

Yet, his dream-self was already moving beyond his restraint. He watched himself step forward, pulled forward by an irresistible force toward the whispering tree.

His hand rose. His palm pressed flat against the bark.

A golden handprint bloomed beneath his touch, and the surface began to melt, turning into sandy liquid. His fingers sank into it. Then the molten warmth crept higher, consuming his hand, then his wrist, dragging his arm inexorably into the glow, pulling, pulling—

Ogata struggled, wrestling against the heavy entrapment. With a violent jerk, he broke free.

Daylight flooded in.

A few yards away, the other man was already strapped up, now calmly feeding his horse something from his open palm. The mare's ears swiveled toward Ogata at the sound of his stirring, and she gave a questioning nicker before lowering her head to the offered handful again.

The dream was already dissolving at the edges, and Ogata let it go without further thought. He pushed himself up stiffly, his back complaining from a night on hard ground. He was coated in a layer of white seeds, since the wind had shifted in the night, and the willows had settled them everywhere.

He was still brushing it from his sleeves when Vasily looked up at him. The man raised his arms, gesturing him over to have the exact same stuff he was feeding his horse.

Ogata cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

He walked over and took the mixed berries from the man's hand. They were small and dark, some almost purple-black. The man and the horse were both watching him intently, two pairs of irises tracking the fate of every berry as he hesitantly placed them in his mouth. He gave the berries a perfunctory chew, and they burst tart and sour against his tongue.

Ogata knitted his brows as he swallowed the juice, yet the man watching him nodded approvingly, as if the acid taste was exactly the delicacy he had intended to share. But when he tried to offer more, Ogata pushed his hand away. The horse, apparently taking the gesture for herself, lipped the remaining berries straight from the man's palm.

"Let's move," Ogata said, wiping his mouth. "Let's see if we can find a river crossing today."

He checked the rifle before mounting, working the bolt and listening to the oiled click of it. The stock was warm from the morning sun, and he slung it across his back where it belonged, the weight of it a steady pressure between his shoulder blades. Only then did he swing up into the saddle, settling forward, leaving the seat behind him conspicuously empty. Behind him, the other man took the silent invitation and mounted with a grunt.

The mare shifted under their weight and let out a long, put-upon sigh.

The river itself ran beside them, carrying occasional patches of weeds and fluff downstream. The path along the river was choked with thick mud, making it difficult to navigate. The ground sucked at the mare's hooves with every step, each one a wet smack. Farther from the bank, the dense forest closed in, its low-hanging branches forcing the riders to bend down constantly. Twigs dragged across Ogata's head, and once a branch loaded with dew tipped its cold load down the back of his neck, startling a native curse out of him that the man behind him had no business hearing.

By the time the sun had fully risen, they had almost covered a dozen miles.

Ogata raised the field glasses to survey the distance, but the river channel was empty, with no boats in sight. He swept the lenses slowly along the far bank, from the trees, the river, then a startled lifting off of wings to the empty landscape. There was nothing but endless wilderness around them.

He let the glasses hang from their strap and pulled out the map instead, unfolding it against the mare's mane. He traced the penciled line of the river with his fingertip. They reached exactly where the crossing should have been, but these marks were not helpful.

The climbing sun drew sweat from his forehead, soaking the fabric of his eyepatch until the sweat started to sting at the tender scar tissue beneath. Wiping away the beads of sweat, he held up the map in sheer frustration, half-convinced they were lost, or that the map itself was flawed.

He turned and shot a glare at the man sitting behind him, but the passenger didn't look the least bit apologetic. Instead, with the reins held in his hands, his arms naturally encircled Ogata's torso. In this sweltering heat, he had taken off his coat, but that only meant his body heat was now seeping through to Ogata's back, more unbearable than the weather itself. The man's chest rose and fell against his spine with an unhurried rhythm, touching him one second and leaving him the next, as if he had been riding this way all his life, as if there was nothing abnormal about the casual immediacy. Whenever Ogata tried to scoot forward on the saddle to create some distance, the damned rider would simply squeeze the mare's flanks, sending her into a brief trot that jolted Ogata right back against him. These impacts would draw suspicious little huffs from Ogata's throat, and the man behind him made a sound that might have been a cough and might have been a laugh.

He could bear this. Or rather, Ogata thought he could bear it. He turned his head away, pressing his lips together, ignoring the strange heat rising from his stomach. He fixed his gaze on the river, on the far bank, on anything that was not the broad, warm, unbearably present chest behind him.

Until the hand resting on his thigh turned into a palm and began to crawl upward, as if assuming it would not be noticed.

The touch was light, casual, pressing idly against the fabric and tracing some absent-minded patterns. But Ogata's whole body went tense. He could feel each fingertip now, working its way up the outside of his thigh with the unearned confidence of a man who had never once been told no.

Something in Ogata pressed him to reach for his knife, had his body gone into automatic defense in its conditioned mode. He could cut any man open like he had done to the goose. Still, with all the means and opportunities to finish a man, he would not mind if someone was finding enjoyment in a little friction against him.

But if he let that hand take hold of him—if he just let him, accepted it like a fool, gone slack and willing—then he would have no idea what he might do, what he might become.

So he acted first.

His hand shot down and clamped around the crawling wrist, and at the same moment, his other hand reached forward and seized reins from the man's slack fingers, and yanked. The mare's head snapped up, her stride broken, and she came to a jarring halt with a snort of indignation.

For one long second, nobody moved.

The other man seemed far too confident in what he thought he had read on Ogata's hesitation, completely unprepared for the retaliation. The crawling hand was still in Ogata's grip, splayed and frozen mid-presumption.

The next moment, Ogata shoved him with such force that he lost his footing and tumbled down from the horseback. The man fell over with a surprised grunt, arms flailing, and rolled twice before a trunk stopped him. Before that man could even catch his breath, Ogata had swung himself off and came down the slope.

The mare, abandoned on the ground above them, with all her wisdom and experience, chose not to come for the rescue, and only lowered down to crop the grass.

Ogata sauntered down from the height and, upon seeing the man rolling on the grass, let out a dismissive snort. Before the man could scramble back to his feet, he already had him pinned back down to the ground.

The broad man beneath him instinctively thrashed and bucked, the powerful machinery of his body working at full tilt, and all the ungovernable strength of it made something hot and pleased settle low in Ogata's stomach. The sound tearing from his mouth was nothing but an unintelligible grunt, as if he were a wild stallion trying to throw his rider, one that only a daring warrior could bestride.

So Ogata rode him exactly like one.

He clamped his thighs tightly around the man's torso, his knees digging into the dirt on either side, pinning the struggling weight of him down with the full leverage of his body.

That beast's back arched, his shoulders rolling as he tried to find a way out from under the grip. The flat of his palms shoved at Ogata's chest, then at his hips, searching for a weakness to break through. Then he found their mark, gripping his waist and pressing right into the lingering bruises and bite marks from before. He had rubbed healing oil into the spot, but now he was hurting it again. The sharp ache forced a pained groan from Ogata's throat, yet the corner of his mouth curled upward.

This was so much better. Hands that left bruises were far superior to hands that tended to them. He had never known what to do with that kind of tenderness. But struggle? Struggle he understood. He had been fighting all his life, and struggle was a language he spoke fluently.

He had walked his path from the steppe and taiga, and sometimes beyond. Maybe this, finally, was the small treat he could allow himself. He had given up everything for this chase, thrown it all away for this man. If he was going to lose it all anyway, he might as well take something first.

His body had already decided what it wanted long before his mind could catch up. Before he could stop himself, he shifted his weight, letting out a subtle roll of his hips against the warmth of the torso beneath him.

He was met with a long growl escaping from the other man's throat, coming deep from his chest. The thrashing stilled, but the whole body beneath him started to move. Those hands pushed apart the legs, fingers digging into the backs of thighs for the incredible firmness under his palm. The swift rocks had the restrained part of one's flesh clashing into another rapidly shifting growth beneath the thick fabric, with a sharp clink from the metal of their belts.

He looked down at the other man, whose eyelids had lowered, casting a shadow over his cheekbones, now focused on the configuration of Ogata's belt. Once he worked it open with one hand, the other already reached deeper.

When the hand wrapped around him, Ogata lost a breath for a second for the world narrowed to that callused grip. Meanwhile his own fingers kept slipping from the buttons and bolts on the other man's trousers, failing to maintain the dexterity the way he steadied for a rifle. He grunted in frustration and caught the insolent smugness on the other man's face. Just so, Vasily withdrew his hands from Ogata's trousers, opened his own, and pulled out his asset for a peer view.

Ogata felt his jaw lock tight, dreading what lay ahead. In a way, he had formed his assumptions ever since a certain grind had started ghosting against his back—during the sleep, even, if a man's depravity could sink that low. Now that he had his hand around it, he dared only to move and rotate his hand slowly, as if any other sudden movement might irritate it and engorge it further. He looked at his own fingers wrapped around another man's flesh and found that he could not quite look away.

"The fuck," Ogata glared down, breathing against the man's face. "The fuck am I going to do with it?"

Some held breath puffed out from the man's mouth, and some from the gaps that had been carved into his cheeks, all owing to the few shallow thrusts he couldn't stop making into the insufferable, insufficient grip. That man shifted slightly, and a flash of mischievous cunning lit up his sparkling eyes.

Ogata just couldn't quite read it, until suddenly, the legs beneath him were spread wide. He was forced to lean forward, as those devious hands landed on a handful of full backside, pressing him closer and harder against him. Ogata could feel the burning heat between them, trapped together, rolling between patches of exposed skin. He had to hiss at the raw scratch of body hair across his loins, a sensation too intimate and too strange to name. A helping hand reached for him and aligned him with the girth, and he had to swallow his saliva and his pride when the long fingers wrapped around both and fondled them against each other.

Ogata emitted a frustrated hum and began rolling his hips with the motion. He lowered his head against the other man's neck, and each breath drew in more scent of sweat, earth, and sole desire. The skin under his mouth was hot and damp, and he could taste the salt of the day's ride already gathering in the hollow of the man's throat. He knew he himself smelled just as foul. But the other man didn't seem to mind it.

Instead, his steed craned his neck against Ogata, only wincing when a sprout of beard stung into the raw meat of his cheek. Ogata snickered at the misfortune, but the next second the hand on his back gripped harder, and he was flipped and pressed down into the ground.

The scenes turned over—a blur of trees, then the blur of sky—and the impact drove the breath from his lungs. He lifted his arms, meaning to hold back. But that face had already descended and approached his.

In that open mouth when he caught the damaged tip with his tongue, there was no taste of the decay. There was only the wet, velvety touch that rolled slowly around his own, and Ogata could not loosen its grip or stop his own trembling when the fractured edge scraped against the tender lining of his inside. He had to suckle at the regenerating tissues, intertwisting with his own damage and cicatrizing into one. He couldn't stand it any longer. He had to tighten his grip at the back of the man's neck just to pull him away, drawing from the ragged air between them and still taste it.

He gazed at the man kneeling over him, already half naked and half frenzied. That chest was heaving, and that golden-brown hair was tossed into a wild arrangement with strings and clumps of leaves in it.

Above his head hung the branches of the willow, dotted with soft feathers, and higher still the crowns of all sorts of trees: bird cherry, rowan, aspen, and Siberian spruce. Through the intricate, overlapping maze of branches and leaves, a few rays of sunlight filtered down, casting dappled shadows upon the ground. The torching glare of the sun was no longer blinding, but gathered into slender beams, spilling down to illuminate the edges of Vasily's face, from the brow, the scarred cheeks, to the hollow of his throat where a pulse was beating. A line of sweat ran from his temple down the side of his neck, catching the light.

A few birds had been calling overhead a moment ago, and now, suddenly, even they had stopped chirping.

Ogata didn't miss it, the way he kept observing and noticing everything around him. Something in him had gone vigilant, now sensing with a different kind of urgency, warning him that something was deeply wrong.

Just then Vasily took a hurried look at Ogata and reached for the hem of his own shirt, Ogata reached for his hands and stopped him there. Then he seized the man's collar and dragged him down.

The other man probably didn't overthink this action, probably assuming Ogata had some particular ideas of the direction they were going. He let it slide off his back and reached for Ogata's neck again, but this time Ogata didn't allow it. Even so, he put a hand over the man's mouth, another gripping tightly around his neck, so he could whisper close.

"Do you feel it… do you hear it?" He had to bite the words into his ear.

Vasily did not seem to let the word sink in. He was still so overwhelmed by the way he had Ogata full-bodily pressed down into the ferns while his ears were still drumming with his own thunderous heartbeat, that he had ignored the sound of closing hoofbeats.

Ogata froze at the first word that came down from above the slope.

"We still have to cross that cliff?" Someone cleared his throat harshly.

The reply came from a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. "Stop whining—Be grateful you are still alive! Poor old Vladimir..."

Ogata rolled off Vasily, melting instantly into the shade of the trees. Without taking the time to fix his clothes, he fumbled urgently, checking the positions of his knife and gun through his open shirt.

His companion seemed to have caught on as well, though his expression appeared all the more composed. While he buttoned his clothes unhurriedly with one hand, his eyes were fixed on the crest through the foliage, and his other hand was already reaching for the rifle that had rolled away during the earlier scuffle.

They shouldn't have let their guard down. He shouldn't have—

Ogata cursed under his breath, the hazy, feverish heat in his head instantly freezing over as his blood ran cold. He counted the horses by the way their hooves struck the ground. The column moved sluggishly over the ridge, unhurried in their pace. Perhaps someone paused to study the river's bend, but it caused no delay to their march. Before long, even the last horse had caught up and moved out of sight, acting as if they had noticed nothing out of place.

"They're gone," finally, he whispered.

Vasily didn't make a sound. Almost imperceptibly, he gripped his fallen rifle, settling it firmly in his grip.

"I want to see the tracks," Ogata said. "Which way they went."

He was already moving before Vasily could reply, crawling up the slope in a low crouch. Only when he reached the top and confirmed the path was clear did he cautiously drop back down.

These men had clearly arrived from a different route. If they also had ridden along the riverbank, their hooves would have been caked in mud. These tracks were bone-dry. A whole herd had passed, yet left almost no trace. It was only by a set of prints near a shallow ditch that he managed to piece together a few clues. Unlike Vasily's flashy half-thoroughbred, this group was riding enduring steppe horses, freshly shod with horseshoes built for long, grueling treks.

He could imagine the purpose of their journey.

The moment he saw the boot prints, his hair stood on end. He had nearly overlooked them.

There was only one clear set. They had arrived at the first impact from the dismount, but the following steps had been deliberately lightened to the point of near invisibility. The tracks veered off into the grass behind a boulder and simply stopped. Beyond that rock, the pale grass lay undisturbed, perfectly still.

Ogata stared at the patch of earth. Slowly, he turned, his hand tightening around his pistol. He knew that if it truly wasn't his paranoia, someone would be hiding behind that rock—but he had to know. Danger would not vanish simply because he ignored it. He traced the footprints, rounding the boulder with his gun raised.

But there was no one.

He blinked. And then the scent of tobacco reached him, just as the blow struck.

It caught him squarely at the base of his skull. He had just enough time to register a flash of surprise before the ground rushed up to meet him, and the white went out.

In this hazy state of awareness, Ogata vaguely sensed himself being dragged. He tried to break free, struggling with all his might, only to find his limbs completely immobilized. He had no idea how much time had passed until a dull ache told him otherwise. Someone flipped him over and dropped him to the ground.

He woke with his face pressed into the gravel, the pain returning first as a throbbing ache at the back of his head. The midday earth strained to absorb every ounce of the sun's heat, the scorched stones pressing a low, steady burn against his cheek like the surface of a stove. As his senses slowly clawed their way back to consciousness, the coarse bite of rope around his wrists told him he was tied.

They had dragged him to a camp on the gravel terrace above the river bend. These men had simply piled together a fire and placed their kettle over it, while Ogata, like a captured animal, was dumped not far from the blaze, the fire nearly licking at his hair. He let out a pained groan, but the instant he felt hands on him, he shut his mouth tight.

The search was quick and thorough, executed with the practiced efficiency of men who had done this a hundred times before. Those fingers worked through his pockets and traced the inner seams of his jacket, until a hand slid down his leg, felt the flat weight of steel against his ankle, and came up with the blade. The man held it up, turning it idly in the harsh sunlight, taking in the antler grip and the gleaming edge before he let out a low whistle of approval.

As he watched his last card slip quietly into a stranger's belt, a place inside him went completely quiet. When a hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head up, a face swam into his blurred vision, red and sweating, close enough that spittle hit his cheek when the man spoke.

"Did you do it?"

He clenched his jaw, deciding to say nothing, even though he had no idea what they were trying to force out of him. A fist came down hard on the back of his head, and the hand holding his collar instantly let go. His face slammed into the gravel. A boot caught him in the back. He curled around the weight, and the boot came down harder, this time planting itself squarely on his skull.

"You killed my brother in that church, you little shit. My brother!"

Ogata blinked the white out of his eyes. He could try to remember the people he had killed. But he could only remember several men collapsing into a heap, as quiet as sacks of grain, and then the frantic, thundering escapade on horseback that followed. He just wouldn't know, nor did he care, which one of them this was.

Ogata's voice came out thick. "I did it clean. No suffering."

He forced a grimace, feeling something warm and sticky trickling from the corner of his mouth.

The boot pressing into his skull halted, though not because of that explanation. Instead, the man snarled and raised his foot. Ogata knew what was coming an instant before it happened. The man was going to slam his heel down and snap his neck.

He curled up on the ground, trying to roll just far enough away at the very instant the foot came down. But someone cut in before the boot could fall.

"Where's the other one?" The voice, hoarse from too much smoking, stopped the fatal revenge halfway. "He ran off, didn't he?"

Only then did Ogata's mind emerge from his beaten stupor and turn to the question of Vasily's whereabouts, that impossible bastard. He swallowed, the saliva in his mouth heavy with the taste of copper. He wasn't convinced of that theory, as a dark grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He lifted his head just enough to take in the circle of men around him, and the grin vanished.

There were almost a dozen men in this gang at the makeshift riverside camp. They wore the grime of the road, coats patched with mismatched leather, bandoliers slung low across their chests, knives in worn sheaths, and faces weathered into hard, sunburnt masks. Only one man stood apart from the rest: a lean, middle-aged figure in a finer cut of clothing, a wide-brimmed felt hat shading his eyes. He had one hand clamped on the attacker's arm, shoving him back, and then lowered his head to study their prisoner like a man appraising livestock.

"Well, well. It's you, my man," he said, letting out a laugh as though they had known each other for years. He bent his knees and dropped into a crouch on the ground. "Pal, you've killed quite a few of our boys."

Ogata said nothing. His wrists were bound behind his back, the rope dried stiff as iron, the fibers cutting deeper into the webbing of his thumbs. He had stopped testing them after a while.

Before him, the man began counting on his fingers. "Let's see... Old Vladimir, God rest his soul. And then Petrov—"

"Damn it, my good brother, Petrov—" the furious man hissed, his anger boiling over, but he didn't dare step forward again under the leader's sharp glare.

"—and Baldy. He couldn't keep up with us. I don't know if he's dead or alive." The leader shrugged. "And then, well," He seemed to remember something, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small paper packet. When he opened it, a few hard candies rolled out, giving off a faint lemony fragrance. He even held it right under Ogata's nose.

"Smell that," he said.

Ogata stared at the candy. He had no idea what the man wanted from him.

"This was little Seryozha's," the leader said softly. " He guarded his candy like a dog. Wouldn't share with anybody." He shook one candy into his palm, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly before popping it into his mouth. "Do you know why Seryozha isn't guarding it now?"

He spoke casually as if they were having the most pleasant conversations, his teeth crunching loudly as he ground the precious sweets into crumbs. "Because you shot him dead." The leader shook his head, "He's been running around with me since he was fourteen, just trying to make his way in the world. How am I supposed to explain this to his family? Poor little thing. He was such a damn fine shot."

The man narrowed his eyes.

"Without a good shooter, we can't do this job."

Ogata didn't flinch. He kept his gaze locked on the man's mouth, watching the lemon candy shift between his teeth. He understood now.

This was an offer.

He swallowed the copper taste in his mouth and spoke, his voice rough but steady. "You don't want me dead." He paused, his eyes flicking to the furious man and the others surrounding them around the camp. "You need me to put a hole in whoever's next."

The leader stopped chewing. Then, slowly, the man's lips curled into a smile that almost reached his eyes. He spat the remnants of the candy onto the gravel beside Ogata's face.

"Now," the leader said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that's the kind of conversation I like to have."

Ogata forced a grimace. "Just one?"

But his intent was easily read. The middle-aged man straightened up, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the crouch. "I know what you're calculating," he said. "But I don't deal with Imperial Russians." He let that hang in the air for a moment. "I'd appreciate one loyal man over more untrustworthy ones."

In a way, Ogata hadn't expected him to yield so readily. But with the right phrasing, he might yet pry the man's terms a little wider. He parted his lips, then stopped. A habitual wariness almost made his ear twitch, just as that sharp voice cut through.

The kettle hanging over the fire was knocked flying, the water splashing onto the gravel and sizzling into steam. The sharp crack of the rifle hung for one second, and then the camp erupted into chaos.

Ogata twisted, forcing himself up into a sitting position as he scanned the perimeter, instantly tracing the trajectory of the sound. Less than a hundred yards away rose a rocky cliff, its face rugged but climbable via a winding path. A few sparse trees clung to the crest, their thick underbrush providing just enough cover for a single man.

He could practically see his stubborn travel companion up there, nursing some suicidal plan, convinced he could take on ten men single-handedly. The idiot was completely ruining Ogata's delicate negotiation. He had almost had the leader convinced—

Snap.

A second bullet tore through the air before Ogata could even finish the thought. One of the bandits yelped, collapsing into the dirt and clutching his calf. The rest of the men raised their rifles, firing blindly upward, but their rounds chewed uselessly into the empty cliff face.

A heavy boot kicked Ogata in the ribs. He looked up, and the gang leader was staring down at him, completely unfazed by the ambush or the bleeding man beside him, despite the fact that he had only moments ago delivered a mournful eulogy for their fallen.

"Are you going to prove it?" the leader asked, a dangerous smile spreading across his face. "That you are trustworthy?"

Ogata didn't seem to fully grasp the man's meaning. He couldn't possibly ask him to—

Then, with casual ease, the leader unholstered a pistol from his belt. Ogata's eyes widened. The man reached out, hauled him to his feet, and slashed through the ropes. He grabbed Ogata's hand, spread it open, and pressed the pistol firmly into his palm.

He looked up. The leader gave him a single, approving nod.

The look was almost… Ogata could find no word for it other than familiar. He had seen that kind of expectation before. It was the same look he'd received in the days when he still couldn't recognize the veneer of kindness that masked the threat of disappointment, when trust meant clearing the path ahead, and obedience was the ultimate proof of loyalty. He had believed then that he must do whatever was asked—even if it meant killing those he should have protected. He had once believed that was the only way, that no sacrifice was too great.

But those days were gone.

Ogata mumbled. "You're not afraid I'll turn this on you?"

The man simply reached out and brushed the dust from Ogata's jacket, the gesture as earnest as an uncle who had known him for years. "Go," he said. "I have to take a small risk to gain a man like you." He even gave Ogata's shoulder a firm pat. " Go on, then. Up you go. Finish it."

The climb was a slow, silent grind. Loose shale shifted under Ogata's boots, but he kept his weight centered. He didn't look back at the gravel terrace to see if the men had their guns pointed at him. He had already calculated the geometry of the slope, the distance to the target waiting in the brush. Had there been an alternative, he would need to find it out before he was finally forced to draw his weapon at the end of this road.

But eventually, he reached the crest.

From a distance, the ridge had looked almost empty. It took another moment to even start to believe the shooter was actually there. He slipped into the cover of the trees, reaching toward the boulder. Even though he had concealed his approach, a skilled observer would have spotted him from above long ago. The waiting had grown familiar with the scent of the one being waited for, and so he had softened the landing of his paws, moving as silently as a predator.

The branches scratched at his face. He parted the bushes, bringing the pistol up.

At the edge of the cliff, he located his man crouched behind the sparse scrub, his body almost reclining against the gritty ground. The rifle remained fixed on the lower slope, locked onto the camp below, though he held his fire. Ogata wondered how many bullets they had left.

Vasily caught the rustle and spun around, but he stopped when he saw the barrel pointing at his chest. He stared at the gun, then at Ogata's face. His shoulders dropped a fraction.

Now, Ogata could read something different in those eyes. Maybe it was panic. Maybe it was the suspicion of betrayal. But maybe the gaze drifting over Ogata's face was just lingering on the bruises left by the beating.

"It's okay," Ogata said. His pistol did not waver, though.

He didn't say anything else. He had no practical plan, no ready command to give his partner. Not yet. Maybe he could still look for a line of sight. From below, it might look like his barrel was trained on the man he had already betrayed. But now he gripped the pistol with both hands, tracing an invisible path from the muzzle, past the edge of the cliff and down to the gang leader.

He could catch them off guard, pull the trigger in the space between one breath and the next. In that fraction of a second, the man who had handed him the very weapon would regret it.

But the angle was bad. And even if he hit one man, the other ten were still too much. The bandit could cut them down before they finalized the escape. They had killed too many of them. They had been given too much excuse. All they needed was a loosened rein.

There would be no walking away from this.

Ogata's mind worked through all his options. He could convince Vasily to lower the rifle, and if they were lucky, he could march him down at gunpoint and even convince the bandits that a live sniper was worth more than a dead one, no matter what badges they wore. They could keep the truce until they reached a safe distance, then find a chance to slip away together.

Maybe this was what fate had brought him here for. Every inch of ground his boots had crossed, every trigger his finger had pulled, had led him to this exact moment. It had placed Vasily in front of his barrel, leaving him to make this impossible choice, forcing him to decide which side they belonged.

"Step back. Hands up." He instructed.

Vasily didn't move at first. He looked at Ogata, his chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing. Ogata remembered the heat he had felt there not long ago, and the thunder of that heartbeat. The wind was just as wild now, and he could catch nothing from Vasily's open lips. He couldn't talk, anyway. If Ogata stepped forward and put his hand there, he might find his questions there.

Instead, he took a step back, and held his gun higher.

As requested, Vasily slowly rose to his feet. Just past that broad shoulder, Ogata could see a straight line stretched from the barrel to the forehead of the leader below. One clean shot, and the rest would be flight. That was the life he had got used to, the part he had prepared for. With the right companion, there was nowhere he couldn't go.

Ogata tightened his grip on the pistol. He had made the choice.

He aimed, pulled, and he waited.

Usually, he would find the man in his sight drop before the sound even reached him. But this time, the figure remained standing. The leader had moved, barely—yet his hand, previously at rest on his belt, was already darting toward the holster, the motion so swift that the weapon was out in a blur.

Half a second passed before Ogata's ears finally registered the echo from his own weapon. Pathetically hollow.

The round had been a dud, arranged before the gun was ever handed to him.

Lies, lies, lies. He should have been enraged at the lies, or at least smug that he suspected as much long ago. But now his mind was burning. He had nothing to grab. He had to move quickly. The shot roared from the terrace just a heartbeat after Ogata's useless click.

The bullet tore through the air, closing on Vasily in scarcely a millisecond.

Ogata sprang forward. He let go of the pistol, cast aside every notion of saving himself, and stretched out his hand, hurling his body into the path of fire. He shoved the man clear of the kill zone. The hot metal whistled past Ogata's head, close enough to singe his hair.

Vasily's face, usually alternating between a mask of coldness and his own feverish intensity, shifted into a brand-new kind of emotion.

Ogata couldn't read it at first. He barely considered the consequences of his actions, whether he was causing them pain or earning their gratitude. Everything served his own purpose, and their feedback mattered little to him. But this bitter mix of confusion and anger—he could not fathom why it had appeared on Vasily's face.

Then he understood it.

Vasily's body jerked sideways as he was pushed away from the shot, but also, toward the further edge of the cliff. A faint, crumbling sound followed, too small for anyone to process in time. The sudden shift of weight was too much for the rain-softened earth beneath his boots. The soil gave way with a dull crunch, and soon clumps of dirt broke away and rained down from the lip of the cliff.

In that split second, it didn't matter where the shot had come from, nor could anyone tell. All that was certain was the world shattering, and that Ogata had thrown him into the very core of the ruin.

Vasily tried to plant his feet, but the ground beneath him was gone. He reached out, grasping at empty air, but there was nothing to hold onto.

Ogata lunged forward, his hand shooting out to catch those flailing arms. His fingertips nearly brushed the other man's hands—he almost had him, he just needed a little more of him.

But he had already missed the moment to close his grip. He closed his hand on nothing. The man he had reached for was already toppling backward, gone over the edge.

Ogata dropped to his knees and crawled to the precipice, his gaze searching the abyss for the falling figure, but there was no one in sight, nor any tangle of roots to break the fall. Only the raging current rushed downstream with such fury that it drowned all sound of shouting and thrashing. The river foamed white against the rocks, dragging everything away without mercy. The current swept the churning water around the bend, and the blinding white glare sealed over the abyss where Vasily had vanished into.

Down the slope, the leader was reloading. He did it calmly, like a man who had finished a piece of work. He was waiting.

The crest fell, and the river tumbled a while longer before it found its stillness. When it did, there was nothing there at all.

A gas giant slowly rotated outside the observation deck's viewport. Thick cloud bands churned under the starlight, displaying a sluggish and almost dreamlike sheen. Vasily Pavlichenko had been staring at it for a long time, long enough for the synthetic protein on his meal tray to cool completely. Long enough for the artificial dawn to shift from a grayish-blue to a stark white. Long enough for his pale, almost transparent blue eyes to begin to ache.

Yet, he never looked away.

He rarely ended a gaze of his own accord. It had always been this way. As if, should he be the first to let go, the thing would silently vanish from the world.

This habit wasn't cultivated in the military. It was something started earlier at the foot of the Ural Mountains. Back then he was still a quiet boy who could squat in the yard and watch a cat walk for half an afternoon without growing bored. Later the cat disappeared. He searched along the hillside for a whole day, until his father dragged him home and hit him for going out without a mask. Said he could die out there.

Vasily can no longer clearly remember what that cat looked like, but he has always remembered the sudden emptiness in his chest. As if something had been pulled out by his very core, while everything around him continued to function as usual.

He hadn't experienced that kind of emptiness again for many years.

Until three months ago.