The surveillance office occupies the third floor of a nondescript building on Leningrad Avenue. From the street, it looks like another abandoned commercial space—dusty windows, faded signs. It blends into the urban landscape without drawing attention. That's exactly what we need.
I climb the back stairs, using the key that opens three different locks. The hallway inside is narrow and poorly lit, lined with doors that lead to storage rooms and dead ends. Only one door leads to the real office.
Inside, banks of monitors line the walls, each one connected to cameras and microphones placed throughout the city. Audio equipment hums quietly in the corner. Filing cabinets hold surveillance reports dating back five years. This is where we keep track of everyone who might be a threat, everyone who might be useful, everyone who might know something we need to know.
I settle into the chair at the main console and pull up the files from last night. Three audio recordings from Zoya's apartment—one from the living room, one from the kitchen, one from the bedroom. The microphones are small, nearly invisible, planted during a routine maintenance visit to her building two days agoby a very eager landlord who accepted our generous donation to his building's maintenance fund.
The first recording captures our entire conversation as she sat on my lap sipping vodka before I fucked her again. I listen to my own voice offering compliments, building intimacy, laying the groundwork for trust. I hear her responses—cautious but warming, suspicious but attracted. The sound quality is excellent. Every word, every pause, every change in tone comes through clearly.
She mentioned feeling lonely without using the word directly. She admitted to finding me attractive despite her better judgment. She spoke about trust being earned, a clear reference to whatever her brother taught her about survival. All useful information. All tools I can use to break her down further.
The second recording is shorter—just our conversation in the kitchen while she made coffee this morning, but it captures the way her voice changed when she asked why I was really there. She knows I'm not telling her everything, but she's willing to play along for now. That makes her predictable.
The third recording is the most revealing. Our kiss, the sound of her breathing, the small noises she made when I touched her. I replay that moment three times, analyzing the tone, the timing, the way she leaned into me. Her defenses are crumbling exactly as they should. She's falling for the version of me I've created, the gentle suitor who shows up at her door with declarations of love.
She has no idea what I really am. Part of me is okay with that because it's the game I'm playing, and part of me already feels possessive over her. I can't even put my finger on the reason I feel like I have to claim her, but it isn't going to be easy to put a bullet in her head when we find her brother and put him down for what he's done. And we can't just sit back and let him or thepeople he works for kill one of ours and do nothing. Zoya will be nothing more than collateral damage.
I open a new file on the computer and begin typing my assessment.Target is responding positively to romantic approach. Defenses are lowering but remain in place. No direct mention of brother's whereabouts or activities. Recommend continued contact to build trust.
The clinical language reduces last night to data points and strategic recommendations. But it doesn't capture the way she looked at me when I said I was falling in love with her or the way my chest tightened when she kissed me back. Those were just words I had to say to get the job done, and my pleasure in that moment was a silver lining. So why does it fuck me up?
I shake my head and close the file. This is the job. Personal feelings are a luxury I can't afford.
The door opens, and Grisha Morin walks in carrying a paper cup of coffee that smells like it came from the all-night diner down the street. He's younger than me by five years, but he's been doing surveillance work longer than anyone else in the organization. His instincts are sharp, his analysis usually accurate.
"Morning," he says, settling into the chair beside me that creaks as he leans back and sips his brew. "How'd it go last night?"
I gesture to the monitors. "Listen for yourself."
He puts on headphones and scrolls through the recordings while I continue reviewing my notes. I watch his face as he listens, noting the moments when his expression changes. He's good at reading people, even through audio recordings. And he doesn't balk at the fact that I'm stark naked with that hot bird on my lap. Doesn't even blush at it.
After twenty minutes, he removes the headphones and looks at me.
"She's hooked," he says.
"That's my assessment."
"But it's not enough."
I turn to face him fully. "Explain."
Grisha sips his coffee and makes a face. "She's attracted to you, maybe even starting to open up to you. But she's not desperate yet. She's not at the point where she'd risk everything to keep you."
"And you think she needs to be?"
"I think her brother isn't going to surface as long as she's stable and safe. He's staying away to protect her, which means he can afford to stay away. But if she's in danger—real danger—he'll come running."
I consider this. Grisha's right about the dynamic. Damir Mirov has been in hiding long enough for us to deduce that he knows how dangerous the city is for him. And he's working with or for people who openly defy us, though we're not exactly sure which of our enemies it is. He's not coming back on his own. We need to force his hand.
"What do you suggest?" I ask, shutting the file and saving it. I turn to Grisha and give him a hard stare.
"Push harder. Escalate this whole thing. Make it real."
"Real how?"
Grisha leans forward, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "Marriage."
I keep my expression neutral, but inside, something shifts. Marriage isn't just escalation—it's a declaration of war. Damir won't see my taking Zoya as my wife as a romantic gesture. She's naive, easily fooled by an act and some lies. But Damir will know what game I'm playing. It's been three days. Love at first sight is nothing more than a fairy tale they put in movies to make people swoon. Damir isn't a fool.
