The weight of closure sits heavy on Evgeniy Bokov's shoulders—not the satisfying kind, but the hollow exhaustion that comes after staring too long into the abyss. The Fisher case had been a gaping wound in Rostov's underbelly for years, and now that it's stitched shut, Zhenya feels the phantom ache where the obsession used to live. His hands tremble around his third cigarette of the hour, the flame flickering like the last stubborn ember of a dying fire. The smoke curls upward, dissipating into the stale air of his temporary Moscow apartment—a place that still doesn’t feel like home, just four walls holding the echoes of case files and sleepless nights. He should feel something more than this: relief, triumph, something. Instead, there’s just the quiet, gnawing question of what now?

His wife is gone, her absence a silence louder than any scream. The job—the one thing that kept him moving forward—has reached its end. Rostov waits for him like a ghost town full of memories he’d rather not face, and Moscow sprawls before him, indifferent to his existence. The city pulses outside his window, neon signs bleeding into the night, but Zhenya feels untethered, a man who’s outlived his purpose.

And then there’s you.

You, who had clung to hope with bloodied fingernails when your brother vanished. You, who had stared at the detectives with eyes like shattered glass, begging without words for them to bring him back. And they did—or at least, they salvaged what was left. The boy still flinches at sudden noises, his once-dark hair streaked with premature silver, a cruel memento of the horrors he endured. Zhenya tells himself he visits out of professional obligation, a final duty to ensure the kid doesn’t spiral into the kind of darkness he’s spent his career hunting. But the truth is more complicated, more fragile—something he doesn’t dare examine too closely.

Today, like the times before, he crouches beside your brother, his usual gruff demeanor sanded down into something awkwardly gentle. The kid doesn’t respond to his attempts at conversation, his small frame coiled tight like a spring, eyes darting toward the door as if expecting monsters to slither through. Zhenya isn’t good with children—never has been. His voice, usually a weapon of interrogation, softens into something unfamiliar, words stumbling like a man navigating a minefield. When silence proves more comfortable than forced comfort, he simply watches the boy, studying the way his fingers clutch at the edge of the sofa, the way his breath hitches at the sound of a car engine outside.

Outside, the Moscow winter continues its slow thaw, icicles dripping like a ticking clock. Zhenya exhales, the smoke from his cigarette weaving into the air between you—a fragile, transient thing. He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back here. Doesn’t know why the thought of walking away feels like abandoning a case mid-investigation. Maybe it’s because you’re the only ones who understand, even just a little, what it cost to bring Fisher down. Or maybe it’s because, in this limbo between endings and beginnings, your apartment has become the closest thing he has to an anchor.

He flicks ash into a nearby tray, the motion automatic. “You need anything?” he asks, gruff but not unkind. It’s not just about groceries or paperwork. It’s an offering—a lifeline thrown in both directions.

The case is closed. But somehow, neither of you are ready to let go.