The building wasn't difficult to find.
Glass front. Neutral signage. The kind of place designed to look like it could be anywhere.
Iyan stood across the street for a moment before going in.
Watching.
People moved in and out without hesitation—badges, briefcases, routine. No one lingered.
No one looked like they were being watched.
That didn't mean they weren't.
Inside, the air was warmer.
Controlled.
A reception desk sat at the center of the lobby, clean, minimal, and efficient.
The woman behind it looked up as he approached.
"Yes?"
Her tone wasn't unfriendly.
Just... direct.
"I'm here to see Artem Karimov."
No hesitation.
No softening.
Better to say it as it belonged.
She glanced at her screen.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
A pause.
Then:
"Please tell him Iyan is here."
The name sat between them for a second.
She studied him—not suspicious, just measuring.
Then she picked up the phone.
Iyan stepped back.
Waited.
It didn't take long.
The elevator doors opened across the lobby.
A few people stepped out.
Then—
Artem.
He stopped the moment he saw him.
Not gradually.
Immediately.
Like something had interrupted him mid-thought.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Artem's expression didn't change all at once.
It shifted in pieces:
Recognition.
Disbelief.
Something sharper underneath.
"What are you doing here?" he said.
Low.
Controlled.
But not calm.
Iyan didn't answer.
Not yet.
Artem crossed the distance quickly.
Too quickly.
He didn't stop at a comfortable distance.
Didn't acknowledge the space between them at all.
"We can't do this here," Artem said under his breath.
Not a suggestion.
A directive.
Iyan glanced once—subtly—around the lobby.
People moved.
No one was looking.
Or—
No one was obviously looking.
"Fine," Iyan said.
Even.
Unmoved.
"Coffee?"
Artem hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then:
"Across the street," he said. "Thirty minutes."
He turned before Iyan could respond.
Already moving.
Already gone.
Iyan didn't follow.
Not immediately.
He left the building at a normal pace.
Didn't rush.
Didn't look back.
The café was exactly what it needed to be.
Small.
Unremarkable.
Half full.
The kind of place where no one paid attention to anyone else.
He chose a table near the back.
Ordered something he didn't intend to drink.
Waited.
Thirty minutes stretched.
Then broke.
Artem walked in.
He looked different.
Not drastically.
Not in a way someone else would notice.
But enough.
More contained.
More careful.
Like everything about him had been adjusted to fit the space he was in.
He didn't sit right away.
Looked around first.
Then again.
Then finally—
sat across from him.
"You shouldn't be here," Artem said.
No greeting.
No acknowledgment of time.
Just a fact.
"I didn't have a choice," Iyan replied.
"That's not true."
"It is."
Artem leaned back slightly, arms crossing.
A barrier.
Subtle.
But there.
"I don't care what your... colleague said," Artem continued. "Or your friend. Or whoever sent you."
"They didn't send me," Iyan said.
Artem didn't respond to that.
Didn't need to.
"I'm not going," Artem said.
Flat.
Immediate.
Final.
Iyan held his gaze.
"You don't even know what I'm asking."
"I know enough."
A pause.
"Everything is fine here," Artem added.
The words came out too clean.
Too practiced.
Iyan didn't challenge it directly.
Not yet.
"Artem," he said instead, quieter now. "This is serious."
Silence.
"These people—whoever has that list—they're not just looking," Iyan continued. "They act."
Artem's jaw tightened slightly.
But he didn't look away.
"I'm not leaving," he repeated.
Softer this time.
But no less certain.
"Why?" Iyan asked.
Not pushing.
Just asking.
Artem hesitated.
There it was.
A crack.
Small.
But real.
Then it closed.
"Because this is my home," he said.
Simple.
Controlled.
"And I'm not running from something that hasn't happened."
Iyan exhaled slowly.
He'd expected this.
Still—
He'd hoped.
"I'm staying at a hotel," he said.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card.
Set it on the table.
Room number written in pen.
"Call me," he said.
Artem didn't touch it.
"When you change your mind."
Artem let out a short breath.
Not quite a laugh.
"I won't."
But he still looked at the card.
Just once.
Then he stood.
Too quickly.
"You shouldn't have come," he said.
Not angry.
Not exactly.
Something else.
He turned—
and walked out.
Didn't look back.
Iyan stayed where he was.
Didn't reach for the card.
Didn't move.
Outside, the city continued.
Unchanged.
After a moment, Iyan picked up his cup.
Took a sip.
Cold.
He set it back down.
And waited.