It had been two years since Iyan had seen him.
Long enough that the memory had settled.
Not gone.
Just... placed somewhere he didn't look too often.
The classroom was quiet.
Not empty—just focused.
A handful of students sat scattered across the room, working through exercises, the low hum of effort replacing conversation. On the board, a sentence remained half-corrected, a verb form circled but not yet explained.
Iyan moved between desks, pausing when necessary, saying little.
Precision didn't require volume.
He noticed her before she spoke.
Not because she stood out—
But because she didn't belong.
She wasn't a student.
She wasn't faculty.
She stood just inside the doorway, waiting.
Watching.
When their eyes met, she gave a small, polite nod.
Iyan returned it once, then turned back to the room.
"Finish the paragraph," he said evenly. "We'll review in ten minutes."
No one questioned it.
He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
Up close, she looked exactly like what she was.
Controlled.
Professional.
Unnecessary details stripped away.
"Yes?"
She reached into her bag, not hurried, not slow.
"Are you Iyan Morozov?"
"Yes."
She handed him a card.
U.S. Department of State
He didn't need to read the rest.
"I'm Yesenia Alvarez," she said. "I'm here about your friend—Artem Karimov. You worked together in Doha."
The name landed harder than he expected.
He kept his expression still.
"...Is everything alright?"
"I'm not sure yet," she said.
Honest enough.
A beat.
Then:
"A list was exposed."
He didn't ask which one.
He already knew.
"Our Dari translators," she continued. "Names, affiliations. Enough to make things... complicated."
Iyan exhaled once.
"Oh."
No surprise.
Recognition.
"We've been trying to make contact," Yesenia said. "We believe he returned to Moscow. That tracks with what we have."
"It does," Iyan said. "His mother was sick."
"Yes."
A pause.
"We've located him. Or close enough."
"And?"
She held his gaze.
"He's not cooperating."
Iyan almost smiled.
"...That's him."
"Yes," she said. "We thought you might say that."
Silence settled between them.
Measured.
Then:
"We're trying to build a case," she continued. "Asylum, relocation. But without his participation, it's... limited."
Iyan didn't respond.
He already knew where this was going.
"We were hoping you could help."
There it was.
"How?" he asked.
"Go to Moscow," she said simply. "Talk to him. Get him to understand the situation. We need him on record. We need him willing."
A beat.
Then, quieter:
"The people who have that list—"
She stopped herself.
Didn't finish the sentence.
Didn't need to.
Iyan did it for her.
"...aren't acting alone."
She didn't confirm it.
Didn't deny it.
That was enough.
"I can't just walk into Moscow and—"
"Yes, you can," she said.
Not aggressive.
Just factual.
"You still hold a Russian passport. You're not on any list that concerns us. You're... clean."
Iyan stared at her.
There was something almost clinical about the way she said it.
Clean.
"And if he refuses?" Iyan asked.
"Yes," she said.
Not missing a beat.
Silence again.
This time heavier.
He thought of Doha.
Of a sentence corrected without argument.
Of a crosswalk that took too long to change.
Of words said too late to matter.
"I'll go," he said.
No buildup.
No negotiation.
"Yes," she said again.
Like she already knew.
"I have you on a flight this afternoon."
That made him look up.
"...You're serious."
"Very."
A beat.
"Through Doha," she added. "Logistics."
Of course.
Iyan nodded once.
"I'll be on it."
She didn't smile.
Just inclined her head slightly.
"I'll send the details."
Then she turned—
and left as quietly as she'd arrived.
Iyan stood there for a moment.
The hallway felt different now.
Narrower.
Closer.