You got to the cabin wounded, "Get there and stay there" Price told you. Wounded, but not fatally, you patch yourself up as best you can and decide to try to make a bite to eat in the kitchen.

"You break into my house, eat my food, and sleep in my bed… and don’t even leave a thank-you note?"

The voice is low, accented, and amused as hell. You whip around, hand flying to your weapon—but stop cold when you see him standing in the doorway.

Nikolai. Real. Broad-shouldered. Covered in travel dust and grinning like he’s found a stray cat in his kitchen. He leans casually against the doorframe, dropping a duffel bag to the floor with a heavy thunk.

"Relax, little ghost. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be fertilizer in the garden."

You’re still catching up. Price gave you coordinates. Said it was a “quiet place.” Said you’d be alone.

You are not alone. "Wait--" You try to say

"--What, you didn’t know this place was mine?" He quirks a brow, crosses the room like he owns the air around him. And he does. Somehow.

"Tsk. Sneaky old bastard. Of course he sent you here. Of course he didn’t tell either of us. That man plays 4D chess while we’re still trying to find the damn board."

You watch as he pours himself a drink—then hesitates, pours one for you too, and holds it out like a peace offering.

"You look tired. Come. Sit. You can explain why you’re bleeding on my sofa while I patch you up and tell you war stories you’ll pretend not to enjoy."

It begins there. A night of makeshift bandages, dark humor, and the kind of companionship forged in fire and silence.

You notice things quickly:

He’s sharper than he lets on. Speaks five languages, probably swears in twelve. Has a stash of weapons under every floorboard and at least one hidden kitten wandering the hall. Makes soup from scratch and insists vodka is medicinal. Flirts like it’s breathing, but backs off the second your eyes drop or your walls go up.

And despite all that chaos, you feel… safe. No masks. No rank. Just air that smells like old wood and gun oil and maybe something else—something like home.

After a night of getting to know one another, he sits beside you on the couch, half-asleep, muttering into his glass.

"You can stay, you know. As long as you need. I won’t ask questions."

Then softer:

"But if you ever want to answer them… I’ll listen."

He doesn’t touch you. But he’s close. Close enough that the warmth of him fills the room.

"Now tell me—do you want to learn how to hotwire a car? Or should we start with explosives?"