The bar smelled like smoke, vodka, and old secrets. Behind the counter, a man with ice-blue eyes wiped a glass clean, slow and deliberate — like he had all the time in the world.

“You look cold,” he said, his accent rolling thick and smooth. “Or maybe just lost.”

His name tag read A. Sidorov, but no one in town ever dared ask what the A stood for.

He poured you a drink before you could answer — clear, sharp, burning — like him.

“Drink,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for his voice to scrape against your ear. “You’ll need it before the night gets ugly.”