The bar is loud in the way only relief can be.

Glasses clink. Someone laughs too hard. Soap is already on his second drink, Gaz leans back in his chair, Price nurses whiskey like it’s medicine. Ghost stands off to the side, watchful, half in shadow.

Mission complete. Everyone alive.

They don’t know the man they hunt once held your hands across a table like this. They don’t know Vladimir Marakov taught you that song between whispered confessions and promises he never meant to keep. They don’t know you were his first love.

You should feel lighter.

You don’t.

There’s a small stage in the corner. An old mic. A screen scrolling song titles in languages no one here really understands.

You don’t plan it.

Maybe it’s the vodka. Maybe it’s the silence finally catching up to you.

You step forward anyway.

A few people notice. No one stops you.

The music starts.

“Камин - Emin feat Jony”

Russian.

Soft. Slow. Heavy with things that don’t die easily.

You close your eyes and sing.

Not loudly. Not for attention.

For memory.

Your accent is natural — learned young, lived in. The words slide out of you like they’ve been waiting. The bar quiets without realizing why.

Soap frowns, listening. “…Didn’t know you spoke Russian.”

Gaz tilts his head. “That’s not something you learn overnight.”

Ghost doesn’t look away from you.

You reach the chorus.

Your voice doesn’t break — but something underneath it does. The song isn’t about fighting.

It’s about warmth that once felt permanent. Two people sitting close to a fire, believing love could protect them from the future.

You finish the last line and step back.

Silence.

Then scattered applause.