**Beneath his wings**

Some men lived to be remembered.

Valkyrie Xanthe Riven lived to be forgotten.

He did not leave traces.

Not in photographs, not in files, not even in the fading memory of strangers who brushed shoulders with him on crowded streets. He was smoke. He was silence.

Thirty-six years of life, and most of those years stolen from the world. He had no permanent home, only safehouses scattered like ashes. No friends, no family. He existed in fragments: a hooded figure here, a forged signature there, a voice on a disposable phone that went dead after three words.

But the powerful knew him — not his face, not his name, but his work.

Every few weeks, their world shook because of him. A secret deal surfaced. A corrupt officer exposed. A politician’s smile torn apart by a document that leaked at the worst possible moment. Files, recordings, photographs — neat, clean, undeniable.

And when the chaos began, Valkyrie was already gone.

They called him many names in whispers: the Ghost, the Phantom, the Shadow. None were accurate. Valkyrie had no interest in being called anything.

He did not care for justice. He did not care for revenge.

What he cared for was truth. Clean. Unedited. Released into hands that pretended they discovered it themselves.

That was enough.

He moved cities like other men changed clothes. Never more than a month in one place. He memorized exits, lived under false names, kept his back to walls and his eyes to reflections. He trusted no one, not even himself when he was tired.

And he was tired tonight.

The storm had been following him since dusk. Rain tapped like fingers against glass, whispered against rooftops, turned the pavement into mirrors that reflected blue and red lights from far-off sirens.

Valkyrie walked through it, his hood low, coat heavy with water. In his pocket rested a small memory card — silver, thin, sharp-edged. To anyone else it would mean nothing. To him, it was weight heavier than lead. On it were names, accounts, transfers, faces blurred but damning. Enough to topple men who thought themselves untouchable.

It was not the first card he carried. It would not be the last.

But it was the most dangerous one yet.

He should have gone straight to the safehouse. He should have hidden the card, sent the files, vanished. That was his rhythm, his law. Break it, and everything fell apart.

But fatigue pushed against his skull, pressing him to stop. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.

And so, when he saw the glow of a small café sign through the rain, he made the mistake of stepping inside.

Anfisa Ivanovna had no storms to chase, no shadows to vanish into. Her life was simple, almost invisible.

She was twenty-three and alone in the world. Orphaned young, she had grown used to silence in rooms that should have held voices. She worked in a narrow café with peeling paint and cheap lights, her days filled with dishes, cloths, trays, and coins too few to count as wages.

Her dreams were not large. She did not dream of palaces or riches. She dreamed of a roof that did not leak, food that did not run out, a night where she could sleep without worrying if tomorrow would demand too much.

People often looked past her. A face in the background. A name spoken only when someone needed an order filled.

She had learned not to expect more.

And yet, fate has a cruel sense of timing.

Sometimes it selects the ones least prepared.

On a night when the storm outside would not end, and the café was nearly empty, a man in a hooded coat walked in and sat by the window. She did not notice him at first. None of them did. He ordered little, spoke less, eyes hidden in shadow. He looked like anyone and no one.

But on the table he left behind, among coins and bills, lay something small.

Something silver.

Something that should never have left his hand.

Anfisa bent to wipe the table clean. Her fingers brushed against it. She lifted it, turned it once in the light, lips whispering a question to herself. What’s this?

That was the moment everything changed.

A moment that would bind her life to his in ways neither of them could escape.

For Valkyrie, it was the first mistake he had made in years. A single drop in the storm.

For Anfisa, it was the beginning of a world she did not know existed.

She would not be allowed to walk away from it.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

The bell over the café door gave a reluctant little ring, half-swallowed by the patter of rain on the awning outside. Evening had soaked the city to the bone, streets running with oily water, car headlights dragging pale streaks across the puddled pavement. Inside, warmth clung to the windows, breath and steam fogging the glass. The air smelled of damp wool coats, burned sugar from the espresso machine, and the faint tang of disinfectant from the mop that Anfisa had dragged across the floor an hour ago.

It was her eighth shift this week. Her apron strings dug into her waist, a fraying thread hung from the hem, and her shoes were slick with coffee stains that no scrubbing could lift anymore. She pressed her palm against the counter to keep herself from yawning while she refilled the glass dome of pastries with croissants that had already lost their crispness.

The café wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either. A cluster of students occupied the table by the window, their voices overlapping as they argued about an exam. One boy gestured wildly with a pen, nearly toppling his cup, while the girl across from him rolled her eyes and scribbled notes she clearly didn’t intend to share.

Near the door, a pair of factory workers slumped over mugs of black coffee, the smell of metal and sweat radiating from their clothes. They spoke in low, gravelly tones, discussing tomorrow’s shift schedule like generals plotting a hopeless campaign.

At the far end, a middle-aged man in a cheap suit sat alone, tie loosened, staring into his glass of brandy as though expecting it to answer him. Occasionally he muttered something under his breath, but his words were swallowed by the soft drone of the ceiling fan.

And then there was the couple. Young, reckless, the sort of pair who seemed to believe the whole world was theirs. The girl leaned across the table, lipstick smudged on the boy’s mouth, their laughter too loud for the small room. One of the students gave them a look, but they didn’t notice.

Anfisa moved between these fragments of lives like a shadow. Her tray balanced against her hip, her shoes squeaking faintly on the linoleum, her voice automatic:

“Refill? Anything else? Sugar on the side?”

She smiled when expected, retreated when dismissed. Her existence was service, quiet and necessary, like the hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

Behind the counter, Lena, her coworker for the night, leaned against the espresso machine and scrolled through her phone, painted nails clicking against the screen.

“You look dead,” Lena murmured without glancing up.

“Feel dead,” Anfisa replied, sliding a bill into the register.

“You should’ve called in.”

“And lose the shift pay?”

Anfisa shook her head, not even angry. Just tired.

Lena smirked faintly, tapping the counter with a nail.

“Suit yourself, martyr.”

It was then the bell rang again. The man who entered didn’t belong. Not in the way the couple belonged, flaunting themselves, nor in the way the students belonged with their clutter of books, nor even the lonely drunk who belonged by being sad in the right kind of place.

This man slipped inside like a shadow carried by the rain. His coat was dark, plain, still dripping at the hem. He moved without hurry, yet there was a precision in the way he folded himself into the corner table near the back, as if he had already measured the distance from the door, the angle of the windows, the nearest exits.

Anfisa noticed him only because noticing was her job. Another customer, another cup, another plate. He didn’t take off his coat. He sat with his back to the wall, the hood shadowing his face, and for a moment she wondered if he would sit there all night without ordering a thing.

She approached, pad in hand. “Evening. What can I get you?”

His voice was low, unremarkable, but it lingered longer in her ears than it should have.

“Black coffee. No sugar.”

That was all.

No smile. No glance at the menu. No small talk.

“Coming right up.”

She forced the usual little smile and stepped away, feeling oddly relieved when she wasn’t under his gaze. Not that he had looked at her directly — it was more like he had measured her, the way one might glance at a clock to know the time.

She poured his coffee, carried it over, set it down. He nodded once in acknowledgment, fingers brushing the edge of the cup, already cooling before he touched it.

Minutes stretched.

She served the students another pot of tea. The couple slipped out, still laughing, leaving lipstick marks on the rim of their cups. The factory men finished their coffee and trudged into the night. The drunk in the suit fell asleep against his arm, muttering into his sleeve.

And still the man in the corner sat. His coffee drained slowly, his posture unchanged. From time to time, his hand slipped into his pocket, drawing out a small device — not a phone, not exactly — but some black, featureless thing that glinted faintly when it caught the light. He tapped it once, twice, then slid it away.

Anfisa tried not to stare. She told herself it wasn’t her business. She told herself customers came in all sorts — secretive, strange, tired, drunk, ordinary. But something about him pressed against her nerves like a blade against paper.

When she passed his table again, he spoke, just enough to catch her attention.

“Long shift.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

His gaze lifted, finally, from the shadows of his hood. His eyes were a gray so pale they seemed almost translucent, like frost spread across glass.

“You’ve been here a while,” he said simply.

“Oh. Yes.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly conscious of the frayed edge of her apron, the circles under her eyes.

“It’s nothing unusual.”

He nodded once, as if that were answer enough, and returned to his coffee.

Their conversation ended there, as quickly as it began.

She went back to her rounds. She wiped tables, refilled cups, exchanged glances with Lena who mouthed a silent weirdo from behind the counter. Anfisa almost laughed, but didn’t.

The rain outside thickened, hissing against the windows. Streetlamps bled gold light into the wet street, where a stray dog nosed through garbage bags and shook itself violently. Cars crawled past, wipers beating frantic rhythms.

It was nearly closing when the man in the corner finally rose. He left enough coins on the table to cover the coffee and stepped toward the door, pulling his hood tighter against the rain.

Anfisa carried her tray over, scooping up the empty cup. The saucer was damp from condensation, the spoon resting neatly across it, and next to the coins lay something she didn’t notice until the tray tilted.

A sliver of silver. No bigger than her thumbnail.

She picked it up between two fingers. Smooth, metallic, with a faint groove along one side. A memory card, she realized after a second. Odd that someone would carry one loose like this, and odder still that he hadn’t taken it with him.

She turned it over in her hand, brow furrowing.

“Whatcha got?” Lena’s voice floated from behind, curious but disinterested.

“Just… something he left.”

“Pocket junk.”

Lena shrugged, already locking the till. “Toss it.”

Anfisa slipped it into her apron pocket instead. Not because she meant to keep it, but because something about throwing it away felt wrong. She told herself she’d put it aside, maybe return it if the man came back. Customers lost things all the time — umbrellas, scarves, a watch once. This was no different.

She finished wiping down the table, straightened the chair, and glanced out the window. The rain showed no sign of stopping. She sighed, thinking of the walk home, the weak heater in her flat, the ache already building in her calves.

And then the night broke.

A sudden flare of blue lights sliced across the window. The sharp wail of sirens cut through the soft murmur of the café. Red and blue strobed against the walls, painting the drunk’s face in garish color.

Lena swore under her breath.“What now?”

Anfisa froze, hand still in her apron pocket where the small silver card rested against her palm. The sirens dulled, then cut, leaving only the hiss of rain and the hollow thump of boots splashing against pavement. A voice outside barked something short, clipped, commanding.

The bell above the café door jangled open, harder than it had ever swung all night. Two uniformed officers stepped in first, shoulders squared, rain dripping from the peaks of their caps. Behind them followed three more, moving in a practiced line. Their entrance was loud, almost theatrical, but the way they spread through the room was quieter — a measured sweep of eyes across tables, doors, shadows.

The café seemed to shrink.

Lena muttered a curse under her breath and reached for a rag she didn’t need. The drunk in the corner jerked awake, rubbing his face, confusion thick in his voice.

“Wha—what’s this? Time to go?”

The students by the window sat stiffly, pens forgotten, the boy’s mouth frozen halfway through a word.

Anfisa didn’t move. Her hand pressed against her apron pocket where the small silver card lay hidden. It was weightless, she knew, but her palm felt its presence like a stone pressing down, heavier with each passing second. She swallowed hard, praying no one noticed.

One officer, tall and narrow-eyed, cleared his throat.

“Routine check. IDs, if you please. Nothing to worry about.”

His voice was smooth, rehearsed, the kind of voice meant to calm — but his eyes scanned the room like a hawk, pausing a moment too long on each face.

The drunk raised a sloppy hand.

“Don’t—don’t got it with me,” he slurred, trying to push himself upright.

“Left it at home. You—hic—you can ask my wife, she’ll tell you—”

Another officer, stockier, moved in with a sigh.

“Name.”

“Dmitri Ivanovich.”

“Date of birth.”

“Eighty-three. July.”

“Address?”

The drunk rattled off something half-coherent. The officer wrote it down anyway, though his expression said he didn’t believe a word.

At the students’ table, a different officer checked their papers. One girl fumbled through her bag, pulling out a student ID with trembling hands.

“We were just studying,” she blurted.

“It’s late, that’s all, just studying.”

“Nobody said you weren’t.”

The officer’s tone was neutral, but he flipped her ID over twice as if it might reveal a secret if he looked long enough.

Lena leaned closer to Anfisa, whispering,

“Always routine until someone disappears for a week.”

“Don’t,”

Anfisa murmured, throat tight.

She felt eyes on her, though none of the officers had come to her table yet. The card in her pocket seemed to hum. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep wiping the already clean surface in front of her.

And outside, just beyond the pale glow of the streetlamp, Valkyrie stood in the rain.

He had left the café minutes ago, coins dropped on the table, coffee unfinished. He had walked half the block before the sirens came, their pitch cutting through the night. Instinct — sharpened by years of evasion — had pulled him into the shadows between a shuttered bookstore and a drainpipe slick with moss. He watched the flashing lights glide past, then stop. Right in front of the café.

His stomach hardened.

He should have kept walking. He should have disappeared down the next alley, melted into the city’s arteries the way he always did. But something dragged his gaze back to the window, to the dim, warm interior where the waitress was clearing his table. And then — the flicker of silver.

He had seen it only for an instant, the size of her thumbnail glinting in the low light before her hand closed around it. A memory card. His memory card.

Cold washed through him, sharper than the rain soaking his coat. He had no memory of dropping it, but there it was. He could almost feel its edges in his pocket, phantom weight. Every file, every name, every blurred image — exposed. If it was found, years of shadows would collapse into daylight.

And the girl had put it in her pocket.

He shifted, pressing his back against the brick wall, watching. She wasn’t aware. Her movements were clumsy, ordinary, the way people moved when they had no reason to suspect eyes on them. That was worse. Innocence was unpredictable.

Inside, one officer now approached the counter.

“IDs, ladies.”

Lena slipped hers out from her phone case with a practiced sigh.

“Here. Happy?”

The officer examined it.

“And you?”

His gaze fell on Anfisa.

Her mouth went dry.

“Yes. One moment.”

Her hands fumbled at the apron knot, tugging at it too quickly. The card pressed against her hip with every move, burning. She dug into the small purse she kept beneath the counter, producing her worn ID. Her fingers shook only slightly, but enough that she noticed.

The officer studied the card under the buzzing light.

“Anfisa Ivanovna. Twenty-three.”

“Yes.”

He looked from the ID to her face, then back again. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of rain and the drunk snoring again in the corner.

“Long shift?”

the officer asked suddenly.

“Yes,” she replied too quickly.

He narrowed his eyes, but handed the card back.

“Stay safe walking home.”

She forced a small nod.

Outside, Valkyrie’s jaw tightened. The police weren’t here by accident. He had been careful, meticulous. And yet, here they were, combing through a café he had chosen for no reason but quiet. Coincidence was dangerous. He didn’t believe in it.

He shifted his gaze back to the girl — Anfisa, the officer had called her. She had slipped the ID away, her hand brushing unconsciously against her apron pocket. Against the card.

Valkyrie’s mind worked like clockwork gears, slow but relentless. Options unfurled and collapsed in sequence. Retrieve it now? Impossible, the room was crawling with uniforms. Wait until later? Risky — too many eyes, too much noise, too much chance of it being noticed before he could act. But leave it? Out of the question.

Inside, the routine check dragged on. The students whispered to each other after the officers moved away. The drunk snored again, only to be shaken awake and warned about loitering. Lena muttered curses under her breath whenever one of the men glanced too long at her.

“Let’s go,”

the tall officer finally announced.

“Clear.”

Boots shuffled, caps tilted against the rain as the police filtered back out into the night. The door swung shut, bell clattering, sirens flickering once more before receding into distance.

The café exhaled.

“Waste of time,”

Lena muttered, already pulling off her apron.

“Always is.”

The students laughed nervously, relieved. The drunk ordered another coffee, though he didn’t have the money for it.

Anfisa stood still, hand still pressed against her pocket. The card was there, safe, unnoticed. Yet it didn’t feel safe at all.

And outside, in the dripping shadows, Valkyrie remained motionless.

He had seen enough. He had his answer.

The girl had what was his.

He waited

The café limped toward closing as if the intrusion had never happened, though the air still hummed faintly with what had passed. The police were gone, but their presence lingered in the nervous laughter of the students, in Lena’s muttered curses as she scrubbed down the counter too hard, in the way Anfisa still couldn’t stop brushing her palm against her apron pocket as if to reassure herself that the tiny silver shard of metal was still there.

By half past midnight, the students had gathered their notebooks and left in a flurry of wet umbrellas and whispered complaints. The drunk in the corner had been coaxed to his feet and sent stumbling into the rain after a brief argument over his unpaid bill. Only the man in the cheap suit remained for a while longer, nursing his brandy as if it might refill itself, before he too sighed and dragged himself out into the storm.

The café felt empty after that, the space echoing with the small sounds of cleaning — cloth against tabletops, the rattle of cups stacked into neat towers, the faint squeak of the mop across the floor.

It was one o’clock in the morning when the owner appeared from the back room, keys jangling in one hand, his heavy brows drawn together. A broad-shouldered man in his sixties, beard going white, eyes still sharp with a youth he didn’t admit had passed.

“All right, girls,” he grumbled

Though there was no heat in it.

“Another day done, eh? Not one of you left me a single ruble richer.”

“You mean not one of us,” Lena shot back

Tossing her rag onto the counter.

“We made you plenty, old man. You just drink it away.”

The owner barked a laugh, wagging a finger.

“Careful, girl. One of these days, I’ll tell your mother you talk to me like that.”

“She’d pay you to stop talking to me at all.”

Anfisa smiled faintly, leaning on her mop.

“You two sound married.”

“Don’t curse me,”

Lena said, rolling her eyes.

“If I had to live with him, I’d throw myself in the river.”

The old man clutched his chest with exaggerated pain.

“Ah! To be so unappreciated in my own café.”

He laughed again, the sound warm despite the hour.

“Go on, finish up. I want to be in bed before sunrise for once.”

Anfisa bent to wring the mop, shoulders aching with the day’s weight. The banter washed over her like background music — familiar, safe, ordinary. For a moment, she almost believed the police, the sirens, the flashing lights had been nothing more than a dream seeping into waking hours.

But the card pressed against her hip, silent and unyielding, and she knew it wasn’t.

Outside, Valkyrie had not moved far. He stood in the narrow throat of an alley opposite the café, half-hidden behind a dripping drainpipe, his hood pulled low against the rain. His eyes never left the window.

He watched the girl mop the floor, her movements heavy with fatigue, her hair clinging damp to her temples. He watched her laugh quietly at the owner’s jokes, her voice carrying faintly even through the glass. He watched her pause every so often, her hand brushing her apron pocket as though drawn there by instinct.

And each time she touched that pocket, the inevitability deepened.

He turned the facts over in his mind like cards in a deck, careful, precise. He had left the memory card on the table. She had taken it. Not discarded it. Not handed it to her coworker. She had pocketed it. That one decision, however innocent, had tied her to him.

He considered alternatives.

Wait until tomorrow? Too much risk. She might open it, might mention it to someone, might hand it over to the wrong hands. Slip inside the café now, retrieve it unseen? Impossible. The owner, the other girl — too many variables. Follow her home? Yes. Cleaner. Quieter. A place where no eyes would interfere.

But another truth gnawed at him, one that he hated admitting even to himself: she had been noticed. Not by him — he noticed everyone — but by the police. They had seen her face, her ID, her nervousness under their gaze. He didn’t believe in coincidence. What if her name was already written somewhere it shouldn’t be? What if they came back?

Then it would not matter whether she meant to or not. She would carry his ruin in her pocket until the city devoured her for it.

He closed his eyes, letting the rain sting against his skin, drawing his thoughts into order. Attachments were weakness. That creed had carried him this far. But weakness and necessity were not the same. She was not a choice. She was a consequence.

Through the window, he saw the café lights dim one by one. Lena untied her apron and tossed it over a chair, shrugging into her coat. The owner stretched his back, muttering about the cold in his bones. Anfisa wrung out the mop one last time, hung it by the door, and wiped her hands on her skirt.

They laughed again at some small joke. Ordinary. Safe. But not for her.

Valkyrie stepped back into the deeper dark, vanishing from the weak glow of the streetlamp. He would follow her when she left. He would wait until the streets thinned and shadows stretched long, until she was alone enough to disappear without notice. Then he would take back what was his.

Not because he wanted her. Not because he wanted anyone.

Because he had no other choice.

Inside, Anfisa blew out the last candle by the counter and pulled her coat tighter.

“Goodnight,”

she said softly, and pushed through the café door into the rain.

The bell chimed once, the sound swallowed by the storm.

And in the shadows, unseen, he followed.

Chapter Two

The rain had eased but not stopped, thinning into a fine drizzle that slicked the pavement into black glass. Neon bled across the puddles in restless colors — pharmacy signs, a flickering bar logo, the faint red glow of a distant traffic light. It was past midnight, the hour when the city exhaled its last traces of energy and slouched toward sleep, but Anfisa’s shift had always ended late. Her shoes tapped against the wet stones in a rhythm softened by water, her breath steaming faintly in the damp air.

She walked with her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, her shoulders hunched against the drizzle. The little silver card still lay hidden in her apron, bundled now inside her bag. She had almost forgotten it while laughing at the café owner’s jokes, but now, alone on the street, it pressed on her mind again. What was it? Why would a man carry something so tiny and leave it behind? She told herself she’d set it aside at home, maybe find a way to return it if he ever came back. But some quiet instinct whispered that it wasn’t that simple.

Her boots carried her along the main road where lamps buzzed overhead, casting long pools of yellow light. A dog nosed through trash near the curb, shaking droplets from its fur. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and wet concrete.

“Anfisa?”

She stopped, startled, turning toward the voice.

From beneath the awning of a closed shop stepped Alan. His hood was pulled over his head, hair damp, but his grin was unmistakable — wide, a little reckless, the kind of grin that had gotten him into trouble more than once. He had been a friend since schooldays, one of the few who never seemed to vanish entirely from her life no matter how scattered things became.

“Alan,” she said, half-laughing with relief.

“What are you doing out this late?”

“Walking,”

he said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“And you? Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

“I just closed the café. Same as every night.”

“Yeah, right.”

He tilted his head, studying her with that easy, careless way of his.

“Place looked busy when I passed earlier. Blue lights and all. You all right?”

Anfisa’s stomach tightened.

“You saw the police?”

“Hard not to. Whole street lit up like a circus. Thought they’d shut you down for health violations or something.”

He grinned, then softened when she didn’t laugh.

“Hey, what happened?”

She shook her head, water dripping from her hairline.

“They said it was a routine check. But… it didn’t feel routine.”

Alan’s grin faded. He glanced around, lowering his voice as though the wet street might be listening.

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

He leaned closer, breath clouding in the cold.

“There’s talk going around. Someone reported that the ghost — you know, the hidden figure, the one who leaks all the corruption crap — is somewhere in the city. Maybe even in this district. Police have been sweeping cafés, bars, anywhere someone might hole up.”

Anfisa blinked, the words sinking slowly. The hidden figure. The phantom people whispered about, the faceless shadow that pulled strings and exposed men in power. She had never believed half the rumors. That he had toppled a minister. That he had files on every officer in the city. That he never showed his face. But people loved stories, and the authorities loved fear.

“So that’s why,” she murmured.

Alan nodded.

“They’re desperate to catch him. You know how it is — makes them look weak, having some ghost bleed secrets everywhere. If they thought he was near, they’d turn the whole street inside out.”

She hugged her bag tighter, the strap digging into her shoulder.

“And you believe it? That he’s here?”

“Don’t know.”

Alan shrugged, the gesture exaggerated.

“But I know the raid wasn’t random. Someone tipped them off. They’re sniffing the ground hard.”

He gave her a sideways glance, trying to read her expression.

“Scared you, huh?”

“A little,” she admitted.

He chuckled, not unkindly.

“Don’t worry. You’re too ordinary to be caught up in that. They’re chasing phantoms, not waitresses.”

Ordinary. The word stung more than she expected, though it was true. She wasn’t anyone of note. She wasn’t clever with computers, wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t worth the notice of men with flashing lights and clipped voices. She was just Anfisa — apron, mop, long shifts, late walks home. And yet, her hand itched toward her bag where the forgotten card lay.

“I should get going,” she said quickly.

Alan raised a brow. “Already? I’ll walk you.”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Come on, it’s late. And raining. And the ghost is on the loose.”

He waggled his brows, trying for humor.

She smiled faintly but shook her head.

“Really, I’ll be fine. You live the other way.”

Alan studied her for a moment longer, then sighed, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.

“Fine, fine. But at least promise me you’ll get home safe. Text me if anything weird happens, yeah?”

“I will, Guy, I walk to my apartment every single day usually at this time, this way..bruh”

“Good.Buddy” He reached out to squeeze her shoulder, warm even through the damp fabric of her coat.

“See you, Anfisa.”

She nodded, pulling her hood tighter as she turned away, boots splashing softly in shallow puddles.

Alan watched her for a few seconds, then disappeared into the opposite street.

Alone again, Anfisa walked on. The drizzle ticked against her hood, a steady rhythm. She counted her steps out of habit — one hundred from the café to the old pharmacy, another fifty to the corner where the streetlight flickered, another hundred toward the alley that cut behind the apartments.

Her thoughts circled Alan’s words, wrapping them around the shape of the night she had just lived through. The ghost, the hidden figure, here. She pictured the hooded man who had sat in the corner of the café, drinking coffee in silence. His voice low, his eyes pale as glass. He hadn’t looked like a legend, just a tired stranger. And yet—

Her hand brushed against the bag strap again, the card inside a reminder she didn’t want. She shook her head, forcing the thought away. It was just a lost thing, a scrap of nothing. She would put it aside at home, forget about it by morning.

The city clock chimed a quarter past twelve, echoing faintly through the damp streets.

12:15.

Anfisa drew her coat tighter and kept walking.

The drizzle thickened again, falling in silver threads beneath the lamps. The streets were nearly empty now, save for the occasional car humming past, its tires hissing through shallow water. Anfisa kept her head down, bag strap clutched close, her steps quickened without her noticing. Alan’s words still rang in her head: the ghost, the hidden figure, the raid that wasn’t routine. She tried to push it aside, but the memory of that hooded man at the corner table returned, pale eyes faintly luminous under the café lights.

Her chest tightened. He had left so quietly. Too quietly.

A shadow shifted at the mouth of an alley ahead. She thought nothing of it at first — just a trick of the lamps, just the rain dragging shapes down walls. But then the figure detached from the darkness. Tall. Hood drawn. Silent as if the city itself were holding its breath.

Her feet slowed.

The man stepped onto the sidewalk as if he had been waiting. The same coat, the same deliberate movement. Her pulse spiked in recognition before her mind fully caught up.

The café man.

She froze, instinct telling her to retreat, but her body too stiff to obey. His presence pressed down on her like the weight of the storm clouds above.

“You” he said.

His voice was quiet, flat, but it struck through the night like a blade.

Anfisa’s hand tightened around her bag instinctively.

“So-rry?” she stammered.

His gaze flicked to her coat pocket, then back to her face. No accusation, no heat, just knowledge.

“The card. Give it back., I forget it at the café table..and saw it's with you"

Every muscle in her body screamed to run, but her legs refused.

“It—it’s nothing. I was going to return it.”

“Now.”

She fumbled for words, for sense.

“It’s just a memory card—”

He took a step closer, and the space between them shrank until she could smell the damp fabric of his coat.

“Hurry”

Her breath hitched.

Then, from the opposite corner, a voice cut through the rain.

“Hey! Everything all right there?”

Anfisa’s head jerked toward the sound. A man — a night worker, maybe from the factory — had paused under a streetlamp, cigarette glowing faintly in his fingers. He squinted through the drizzle, watching the scene.

Valkyrie’s jaw tensed. His plan had been to retrieve the card quietly, walk away, erase the moment. But a witness shattered that option. The girl’s presence was no longer a loose end — it was evidence. His silhouette, her frightened face, another pair of eyes piecing it together.

Decision locked into place with a cold click.

He moved.

His hand closed around Anfisa’s arm, iron-strong, dragging her into the shadow of the alley.

She gasped, the sound breaking into a frightened cry.

“Let me go!”

Her other hand clawed at his wrist, nails scraping, body twisting violently against his grip.

“Quiet,” he hissed.

“Move.”

She shook her head, panic breaking through in choked sobs.

“Please—please, I didn’t do anything—”

The witness’s voice rose behind them.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

Valkyrie shoved Anfisa deeper into the alley, every step calculated. He could hear the man starting forward, shoes slapping on wet stone, but the darkness swallowed them quicker than pursuit. The city’s veins were his. He knew every turn, every narrow passage where sound died and sight failed.

Anfisa thrashed, heels slipping on wet pavement. Her breath came in ragged sobs, heart hammering so violently it felt like it might break free from her chest. Tears blurred her vision. She tried to scream again, but his hand clamped over her mouth, cutting the sound short.

The witness shouted once more, closer this time. Then silence. By the time he reached the alley’s mouth, the figures were gone.

Dragged deeper into the labyrinth, Anfisa stumbled against slick walls, her shoulders knocking into cold brick. Valkyrie’s grip never loosened, unyielding as steel. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pushed her through a rusted door that groaned open and slammed behind them.

The noise echoed in the cavernous dark.

The space smelled of damp earth and metal. Pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping occasionally. A single bulb flickered overhead, its weak light casting more shadow than illumination. It was not a home — not in any sense she knew — but it was hidden. A pocket carved into the city where the world outside could not intrude.

He released her only enough to let her breathe. She collapsed against the wall, hands shaking uncontrollably, her back scraping cold brick. Tears streaked her face, hair plastered to her cheeks.

Her voice broke through in a whisper.

“Why… why are you doing this?”

He stood before her, calm, coat dripping, hood shadowing his pale eyes. His expression was not cruel, not heated — only clinical, as if she were a problem on a page to be solved.

“You saw nothing. You know nothing. That is the only way you survive.”

She shook her head violently, words tumbling out.

“I swear I don’t know anything! I—I just found it, I didn’t look at it, I didn’t—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it carried like a blade against her skin.

“From the moment you touched it, you became part of it. That’s enough.”

Her breath came in short, panicked bursts. She pressed herself tighter to the wall, wishing she could melt into it, vanish.

“Listen carefully.”

His tone shifted, colder, more formal.

“You were seen with me. Which means if they find you, they will use you to find me. Do you understand what that means?”

She tried to speak, but her throat locked.

“It means,”

he continued,

“that your life is no longer yours. You keep silent, you do exactly as I say, you may see daylight again. You falter once—”

He let the silence finish the threat, his eyes unblinking.

Tears welled hot again, spilling down her cheeks. She nodded quickly, unable to form words.

“Good.”

For a moment, there was only the dripping of the pipes, the faint hum of the bulb.

Then, with sudden desperation, Anfisa bolted.

Her shoes slapped against the concrete, echoing wildly. She didn’t think, didn’t plan — just ran, heart thundering, breath tearing from her throat. The exit door loomed ahead, rusted and heavy, but it was a door, and beyond it was freedom.

She reached for it—

His hand caught her arm mid-stride, yanking her backward so violently her shoulder burned. She let out a sharp cry, twisting, clawing at him with both hands. Nails raked across his skin, the sound of fabric tearing. She fought like a trapped animal, wild with fear.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a whip.

But she didn’t stop.

His patience snapped. He pinned her against the wall with brutal efficiency, one arm across her chest, the other locking her wrists. She struggled, tears streaming, sobs muffled against the cold brick.

The bulb flickered above them.

“Do you want to die here?”

he demanded, voice low, lethal.

“Because if you keep this up, that is exactly what will happen.”

Her body shook violently, but she could not answer. The sobs came in broken waves, her breath catching on every one.

He leaned close enough that his words cut into her ear.

“You think you can run into the street now? You think you can scream for help? You already saw — someone saw us. And what did that buy you? Nothing. He’ll tell them what he saw, but we’re already gone. He cannot save you. No one can.”

The finality in his tone crushed her resistance. She sagged against the wall, trembling, wrists still locked in his grip.

He studied her a long moment, eyes flat and unreadable. Then he released her slightly, just enough to let her breathe without choking.

“You made this worse,”

he said evenly.

“I wanted answers. Instead, you chose fear. That’s on you.”

Anfisa slid down the wall to the floor, hugging her knees, silent but for her uneven breaths. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, too afraid to meet his.

Valkyrie turned, scanning the small space, already fitting her into the logistics of his life. She was a variable now, one he hadn’t chosen but one he would control. His mind ticked through contingencies: the witness, the search, the card.

He would keep her here, at least for now.

Not because he wanted to.

Because she had left him no other option.

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drip of water from a pipe overhead. The storm outside muffled the city, sealing them in this dim, cold pocket of concrete and shadow.

Valkyrie crouched at the narrow steel table bolted to the wall, pulling the small silver card from his coat pocket at last. It gleamed faintly in the weak bulb-light as he slid it into a device no larger than his palm — unmarked, black, almost featureless. The screen blinked to life, its glow painting sharp lines across his pale face.

Lines of folders appeared, each one coded, nested, disguised. His fingers moved with practiced precision, scrolling, opening, closing. Relief flickered in the smallest tightening of his jaw: intact. Every file accounted for. The ministers, the businessmen, the contracts — the rot that bled through the city. All still there.

Behind him, Anfisa curled against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. The tears hadn’t stopped, though they came quieter now, sobs dwindling into small, broken hiccups. Her palms were raw from clawing at his hands, her wrists sore where his grip had held her. She had never known fear could feel this endless, stretching across every breath, every second.

He didn’t turn to look. He didn’t care.

When he was certain the files were secure, he pulled the card free and tucked it into an inner pocket. Then, without a word, he rose, crossed the space, and dropped a thin, gray blanket over her like one might cover a piece of furniture.

The fabric startled her at first. She clutched it to her chest, trembling, realizing it was the only barrier between her body and the damp chill of the floor. He hadn’t offered it out of kindness. It was practicality. Keeping her alive was easier than dealing with her collapse.

Through blurred vision, she peered at him cautiously. His hood shadowed most of his face, but the light caught enough. Skin pale, almost bloodless in the flicker. Eyes startling — light silver, like frost stretching across glass, sharp enough to catch her in place even from across the room. His jaw was clean-shaven, his expression carved from stone. He looked… older than her, older than the boys she knew, older than Alan with his reckless grin. But not old. Mid-thirties, maybe. She couldn’t be sure.

She looked away quickly, pulling the blanket higher as if it could hide her from that gaze. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing.

He studied her for a moment, unreadable. Then he spoke, voice flat, controlled.

“You’ll stay here tonight.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t answer.

“Tomorrow,”

he continued,

“I’ll know more. If it’s safe, you’ll leave. If it isn’t, you won’t. That’s all.”

The words hit like blows: If it’s safe, you’ll leave. She wanted to seize on them, wanted to believe in them. But she caught the unspoken half as well — If it isn’t, you won’t.

She tightened her grip on the blanket, silent.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You want to survive? Then listen. I’ll check the streets tomorrow. I’ll know if your name is being whispered, if your face has been tied to mine. If it hasn’t, you walk away. If it has…”

He let the sentence hang in the damp air.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Fear lodged too thickly in her throat.

Valkyrie stepped closer, his shadow falling long across the floor.

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all this is. Don’t mistake it for more.”

Her eyes lifted to him just briefly, searching for something human, some crack in the ice. But his gaze was merciless, silver irises catching what little light there was and throwing it back cold.

She dropped her eyes again. The blanket itched against her skin. She curled smaller, pressing herself into the corner. Silent.

Valkyrie returned to the table, sitting with his back to her, scanning the device once more. Every movement was deliberate, as if the world outside didn’t exist, as if she weren’t there.

Anfisa stared at the uneven floor, heart hammering, tears drying sticky on her cheeks. Her mind wanted to scream, to run, to fight again — but her body wouldn’t obey. She was too ordinary. Too small.

And he had made his point.

Tomorrow would decide everything.