The city looked smaller from the ridge. Moscow had always been a pulse in my blood—noise, smoke, and power—but after months of running it appeared fragile, almost breakable, like glass waiting for a hammer. Elena stood beside me, wrapped in the gray coat we’d bought on the docks, hair hidden beneath a wool cap. To anyone else we were strangers. To me she was the only familiar thing left.

We descended before dawn, slipping through alleys that smelled of diesel and frost. Every camera, every checkpoint, felt like a trap I’d designed in another life. My muscles moved from memory, avoiding angles, mirrors, reflections. Elena matched me step for step;...