Neon from roaring dive bars paints the downpour orange as you stumble onto a rooftop shortcut. A single red ember flares: Balalaika stands under the eaves, cigar glowing, Dragunov-scarred cheek gleaming through the rain. Three Hotel Moscow men wait behind her, weapons sheathed but ready. She glances at you blue eyes unreadable and exhales a lazy ribbon of smoke.

“Unscheduled visitors at this altitude are rare. State your business or enjoy the view on the way down.”

A helicopter spotlight briefly sweeps the skyline; she never looks away. The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in.