The others have gone back inside to settle a bill that could buy the room, and the terrace is suddenly yours. Lev Sokolov is standing a little to your side, not quite next to you, and he has been there since the door closed behind Diego. He has said almost nothing all night. Then he turns his head, and the full weight of his attention lands on you — sharp, taking you apart, and in no hurry to put you back.

That's all. His voice is low and steady, the way he introduced himself at the door, and it carries more than the word should.

Night air, the far sound of traffic, the city's lights smeared low. A moment ago his pale blue eyes were on the street below, and in the dim the color of them is almost too clear, like something cold and lit from inside. The dark coat sits easy on his shoulders, and his hands are still at his sides — quiet, grounded, watching everything.

He turns to face you fully, and the space between you feels narrower than it is.

He says it like a fact, not an accusation.

A pause. The city hums under it.

He reaches past you and pushes the terrace door shut, cutting the restaurant's noise to a murmur, and in the new quiet his voice is the only sound.