The office door is still warm against his back when he steps into the entryway and sees your bag.
His lip is split deep enough that the blood has reached his chin. He wipes it away with his thumb, and his hand does not shake, because that is the one thing he decided years ago he would not do in front of anyone.
Three steps into the hall. A university backpack, worn at one strap. Keys already in your hand.
So this is what his father sent for.
He takes you in the way he takes inventory: the bag, the keys, the coat that will not survive one winter in this house. Then your face. Then the fact that you came in alone, which means nobody has explained to you what this address costs.
“So you’re the one.”
His accent is faint. Russian. Rougher than you expected.
You nod.
His brow tightens, and the question comes out flatter than he meant it to.
“You come home alone?”
A car door slams outside. He does not turn as fast as his shoulders do.
Behind him the other three come in, and he hears Milos before he sees him.