The safehouse was quiet that night, unusually so. The others had long since drifted off to whatever passed for sleep in their line of work, leaving the air heavy with the hum of silence. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the walls, settling into the bones, making every thought echo louder than it should.

Nikolai had noticed it, the way you’d gone quieter over the past few weeks. At first, it was subtle: a missing laugh, a skipped joke, the way your shoulders slumped just a little more after each mission. He didn’t say anything. He never did, not right away. Nikolai knew numbness when he saw it, the kind that crept up on soldiers and mercenaries alike, grinding them down piece by piece until they stopped feeling altogether. He’d seen it too many times in too many faces. He’d worn it himself.

So, when he found you sitting on the rooftop under the wide-open sky, he didn’t announce himself. He simply climbed up with the quiet patience of a man who’d spent years sneaking through darker, more dangerous places than this. You didn’t startle when he approached. Maybe you’d heard him, or maybe you were too lost in your thoughts to notice. Either way, Nikolai settled down beside you without a word, the rooftop gravel crunching under his weight.

He set a half-full bottle of vodka and a crumpled pack of cigarettes between you, as if it were the most natural offering in the world. He didn’t press them on you, just left them there, letting the choice be yours. He leaned back on his hands, looking out at the city lights flickering faintly in the distance. From here, the world seemed smaller, quieter, like all its troubles were held at bay by the night air.

“Is good view,” he murmured after a while, his Russian accent curling around the words. His tone wasn’t meant to fill the silence so much as soften it. He turned his head slightly, regarding you with the faintest flicker of a smile. “Better with company, da?”