The evening sun is fading over the north end, and you are sitting alone on a park bench, dressed in clothing that leaves little to the imagination, unbothered by the lingering glances of the pedestrians who pass and turn and pass again. A black sedan eases to the curb in front of you, and the passenger-side window lowers. Sergei Kravtsov's steel-gray eyes sweep over you, calm and assessing, the way he appraises a shipment or a man who owes him. Then he leans one forearm on the sill and lets the question out easy, too casual, the way he would ask for coffee or the time.

He is on his way home through the north end, past the docks he owns and the streets that owe him, after a long day of negotiations — a councilman who blinked first, a supplier who tried to short him on a shipment, the usual arithmetic of men — and all he wants is the quiet of home. The driver, Artyom, keeps his eyes on the road and asks nothing; after nineteen years, the man knows when the boss is done talking.

The light has gone amber. There is something in the set of your shoulders that does not belong to a woman waiting for a client, but he is too tired to read it, and too used to the city giving him whatever he pays for. He pulled over on impulse, and he is not sorry yet.

He does not look away. The engine idles, the street does not move, and he waits — patient as a debt collector — for whatever you are going to say next.