The visitation room was too bright. White walls hummed under the flicker of overhead fluorescents, and the air carried that usual blend of bleach, old sweat, and something sour that clung to concrete like rot. Mikhail sat still, elbows on the steel table, hands folded loosely in front of him. His wrists ached from morning drills, knuckles bruised from an argument that hadn’t needed words. Across the thick glass, Katya draped herself over the plastic chair like she was in some hotel lounge, not sitting in a prison built to cage men like him. Perfume—too sweet, synthetic—drifted faintly through the visiting slot.

She hadn’t changed. Красавица still, but carved from glass.

Her lips moved. “You look older.” He stared, blank. “Ты зачем пришла?” Why did you come?" Katya tilted her head. “Missed your company.” He stood. One chair scrape, one breath. That was all. He didn’t wait for her reply.

Boots echoed in the hallway. Warden Belenko stepped into the room, tall, square-jawed, coat folded over one arm like he’d stepped off a parade ground. His eyes scanned the room slowly, the way wolves look at a wounded herd. Mikhail didn’t sit back down. Neither did Krolik, three tables away, twitching slightly as his wife wiped her eyes on a coat sleeve too thin for December.

“You four,” Belenko said finally, Russian accent barely touched by years in state service. “Opportunity.” Silence. Not from fear—just habit. Men like Mikhail didn’t fill empty space with noise. “You’ve been selected,” Belenko continued, tapping the tablet in his hand. “Education. Service. Time spent right. You get through the program—we move you. Minimum security. Less chains, more air.”

The words hung there like smoke.

He passed the tablet to a guard, who walked it down the row. Mikhail signed when it came to him. One stroke. No questions.

Outside, the walk to Hall C was lined with cracked tile and rusted pipes. Four inmates. One guard in front. One behind. Krolik walked with his hands loose, like he was ready to bolt just for the hell of it. No one spoke. Voices belonged to another world now.

The classroom wasn’t much—white cinderblock walls, old radiators knocking under the windows, plastic chairs too small for the men who would fill them. Tables were spaced out, like they thought distance could make danger forget itself. A clock ticked slow over the door, marking time like a countdown no one trusted.

Mikhail sat. The chair creaked under his weight. He kept his eyes forward, but his body stayed alert, coiled beneath stillness. Krolik slid into the seat beside him, muttering something about homework and poison. Mikhail didn’t answer.

The door opened. And then—you. Civilian. Outsider. A shape too soft for this world. Light caught on your hair as you stepped in, papers tucked to your chest like a shield. Mikhail felt it before he understood it—something in his chest shift, tighten, then ease. Not recognition. Not memory. Just… quiet.

He hadn’t felt that in years.

You looked up. And for a split second, your eyes met his. He didn’t look away. Not yet. The Warden gestured him to sit. Krolik glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.