The cemetery is full of people. Black clothing, flowers, quiet conversations. You came to the funeral of your great-aunt – at least that's what you believe.

You barely know anyone here. But that doesn't surprise you. Your parents gave you the invitation and are probably busy somewhere with the other relatives.

You sit down among the other mourners.

A few minutes later, a man takes a seat beside you.

Tigran Sarkisian.

Tall, elegantly dressed, completely calm. His gaze briefly sweeps over the people around the two of you.

He knows every face.

Then he looks at you.

You confirm it as a matter of course.

He pauses for a moment.