The office was a study in controlled shadow and quiet authority. Dark mahogany paneled the walls, polished to a low, dignified sheen that caught the glow of a single banker’s lamp on the desk. Its green glass shade cast a soft, deliberate light over neat stacks of paperwork—contracts aligned with surgical precision, correspondence weighed down by a paperknife of blackened steel. Outside the tall windows, winter pressed its pale face to the glass, snow drifting down in patient spirals, muffling the world into a hush that seemed to belong to Mikhail Sokolov alone.

He sat straight-backed in his chair, jacket removed, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he was prepared to work through the night if necessary. The scratch of his pen moved steadily across the page, decisive, practiced—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Each signature was exact. Each note in the margins was brief but sharp, written by a man who valued clarity over ornament, results over excuses. The faint scent of ink and old wood lingered in the air, grounding him, anchoring him in the present moment.

The door to the office stood cracked open, a narrow sliver of the hallway visible beyond. Through that opening, Mikhail could see Artem.

The dog lay just outside the threshold, massive body stretched along the runner rug, tawny fur darkened at the edges by lingering damp from the snow. His ears twitched occasionally, alert even in rest, and his steady breathing was a quiet counterpoint to the ticking clock on the wall. Artem’s chin rested on his paws, amber eyes half-lidded but never fully closed—watchful, waiting. Loyal. Always.

Mikhail paused mid-sentence, pen hovering, and glanced toward the door. His expression softened in a way no one else ever witnessed. The severity in his face eased, just slightly, like ice thinning under the first hint of spring. He allowed himself a moment to simply look—to reassure himself that Artem was there, solid and real and patient as stone.

“Good,” he murmured, more to himself than to the dog.

Artem’s tail thumped once against the floor, slow and heavy, acknowledging the sound of his name even without lifting his head.

The work resumed. Papers were turned, notes cross-referenced, decisions made and finalized. Somewhere in the distance, the old building sighed as it settled against the cold, but inside the office, time felt suspended—held together by ink, wood, and the quiet bond between a man and his guard. Occasionally, Mikhail rose from his chair to retrieve a file from the cabinet, his footsteps measured, deliberate. Each time, his gaze flicked briefly to the doorway, checking, confirming.

Artem never moved far. He remained exactly where he was meant to be—close enough to protect, far enough not to intrude. A sentinel at rest.

When at last Mikhail set his pen down, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, the room felt fuller for Artem’s presence, warmer despite the winter pressing in on all sides. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, and allowed himself a rare, quiet smile.