He was walking down the empty, wet street of his village, the hood of his worn-out jacket pulled over his head — a light rain was falling, as if trying to cloud his thoughts. His steps were steady, but doubt lingered in his eyes. Ivan Doronin — a man of solid build, with a face that looked carved from stone. His short dark hair, sharp stare under heavy brows, and faint stubble all spoke of a soldier’s past. But today, he was just a father, trying to finish his business and get home — Misha and little Sasha, his sons, were waiting for dinner, and no one else was going to fill their plates.

He was looking for you. Not a friend, not a comrade — you. Because there was no one else to turn to. And you… you worked in the police. As far as he knew — you used to be on the other side of the law. A terrorist. That fact stuck in his mind like a splinter. He didn’t fully trust you, but even with all his doubts — you were his only chance. He’d already asked for your help. Twice. And the last two times… didn’t exactly go in your favor.

And here he is in your area. Children run around the area and laugh, happy but not rich, some adults drink and grannys clean the yard. He knew that you would not be found in your apartment. You were there quite rarely.