SAFEHOUSE

chapter ten

Vasily hadn't been staying with his mother and sister since he'd been whisked away by some guy deluded into thinking he'd be the next Euler. The poor old math teacher should have lived to see the day Vasily betrayed the pure, raw theoretical math, or betrayed the government who had paid his tuition.

His holidays were spent solving problems at the old man's house, while choking down his so-called handmade "healthy" ice lollies. He'd caught him staring. It baffled him now that no adult seemed concerned about a grown man obsessively keeping little boys around.

On one rare occasion, he managed to take the train home—only to find Kateryna sitting at the dining table, rubbing something into her elbow, a half-empty bottle of vodka in front of her.

Kateryna turned, startled to find him home. Vasily didn't see his sister often, but he knew her so well. She should be fierce as a tigress. The idea that this terrifying young lady was capable of crying had never crossed his mind. Yet there she was, eyes red and swollen.

"Don't tell Mom." That was her first reaction.

chapter four

Vasily scanned the room as he waited for his drink.

When they'd mentioned a nightclub, he'd imagined something different. He'd been to clubs in plenty of cities, and most followed the same pattern—sweat-slick bodies, strobe lights, and the kind of debauchery that left him feeling filthy the next morning. He'd tagged along to this, figuring it could be worse, for it was supposedly Sugimoto's friend's bachelor party.

This place had karaoke.

The air reeked of fried food and cheap beer, the walls plastered with peeling band posters and flickering neon. In the far corner, Shirashi belted out off-key lyrics with unshakable confidence, while Sugimoto hovered nearby, mic in hand, waiting for his turn to chime in. Their soon-to-be groom friend wedged himself into a corner, seemingly forgotten, even though this event was supposed to be about him. He didn't seem to mind, holding a hand clapper to cheer them on.

Vasily slumped back and pulled out his phone, scrolling through a stack of photos waiting to be edited and posted. A sky streaked with cotton-candy like clouds. Local snacks gleaming in shop windows. Random street cat that curled up beside him. A few candid shots of Ogata, slumped over in seat or bed.

Then there was the tattoo of Shirashi and Boutarou.

His gaze drifted up, landing on the bartender.

Boutarou was shaking a cocktail when his eyes met Vasily's. He hadn't spoken yet, but his gaze lingered, expectant, as if daring him to ask something.

"Why bartend here?" Vasily finally asked. "I thought you own the place."

As the summer solstice approached, the sky stretched clear and endless over Lake Baikal, its surface shimmering in the sunlight. The lake was an intense blue that seemed plucked from a kingfisher's feather, yet no number of these birds was enough to replenish the deepest freshwater on earth. Here, the heavens poured out their pigments with such reckless prodigality that would've wrung envy from any starving painter.

Even the air hummed with life—birds darted low over the waves, their wings skimming the surface, while the larches adorned the shore with a verdant tapestry. For a moment, the world seemed suspended in perfection, disrupted only by the distant rumble and whistle of the Trans-Siberian train, carrying its travelers from the farthest reaches of the East to the western end of the vast land.

Vasily sat by the window, his gaze drifting over the vibrant landscape outside, though remained indifferent to its charm. His eyes were fixed on something far beyond. The rhythmic clatter of the train lulled him, almost pulling him back to one winter night in particular.

Vasily sat in the hole, cleaning his rifle with what little he had left.

The war had stripped them bare. Grease was a luxury now, and anyone with a drop would drink it rather than waste it on a weapon. Clean rugs were gone too. Anything clean was reserved for bandages, for wounds that never seemed to stop bleeding. All he could do was wipe the stock and barrel with his filthy sleeve, over and over, as if the motion itself could make a difference.

The cold, damp air seeped into everything, warping the rifle's internal parts until they became useless. The trigger might freeze at the worst possible moment. So he still kept at it, if only to keep the Mosin-Nagant somewhat dry. It was a symbol of pride—not every man had the honor to carry one. He held it close, cradling it like a lover, though its cold, unyielding frame felt more like the body of one long gone.

Outside, the cannon fire roared without end, denied anyone even a moment of rest. All night, the explosions echoed like mountains collapsing, their fortress crumbling down piece by piece. The flares from the blasts lit up the night sky, blurring the boundary between darkness and dawn, delusion and dream.

Time itself had become a stranger to him. At the start of the siege, he could mark the days by the sun's position. When autumn arrived, the alternations between the attacks—cannons and charges—provided a pattern. But later, as smoke covered the sky and the assaults grew erratic and persistent, he measured the days only by the intensity of his hunger.

Now, even that was gone. His stomach and lower abdomen had ached for so long. With acid, his intestines were devouring themselves. He could barely feel the pain anymore. Perhaps they had finished the job, leaving him only an empty husk.