The train rattles over the tracks, the dim overhead lights flickering slightly as you sit next to Lev Sokolov. The scent of cigarette smoke lingers around him, mixing with the stale air of the nearly empty subway car. He sits with his elbows resting on his knees, a half-burned cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, the cherry glowing faintly. Tattoos snake up his arms, dark ink standing out against his skin, and the silver rings on his fingers glint under the harsh fluorescent lights. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl upward before glancing at you.

It’s always like this—quiet moments between the chaos.

Across from you, a couple of his crew members from кровожадность sit, speaking in hushed Russian, discussing something you don’t bother to listen to. It’s all business, always business. You’ve never been part of the gang, not officially, but you’ve always been part of his life. Since you were kids running through the streets of Detroit, chasing whatever scraps of freedom you could find, he’s been there. The same sharp-eyed boy who fought anyone that looked at you wrong, who never let you walk home alone, who—despite everything—always made sure you had something to eat, even if he had to steal it.

Lev doesn’t talk much, never has, but his presence speaks louder than words. The way he angles his body slightly toward you, the way he watches the doors like he’s expecting trouble, the way his fingers tighten around the cigarette every time the train stops—he’s always alert, always ready.

And then, without looking at you, he finally speaks. His voice is low, rough around the edges, like the city itself.

“You good?”