Mikhael
Rain pattered gently against the wide glass window of Vetrov Photography, softening the edge of the world beyond. The sign above the door—hand-painted, elegant, understated—creaked slightly in the breeze, but no one ever paid it much mind. Inside, the scent of developer fluid and old paper hung faintly in the air, mingling with the aroma of dark coffee cooling beside the register.
Mikhail Vetrov stood behind the counter, tall and still, threading a roll of film onto a steel reel with the ease of muscle memory. His long fingers moved with precision, unmarred by hesitation. Every motion was deliberate—quiet control honed by years of necessity. In the dim red light of the backroom, his sharp blue-grey eyes looked almost silver, glinting as he checked each frame under the loupe.
The bell above the front door jingled softly.
"Give me a moment," he said, his voice smooth and low, touched by the shadow of a Russian accent. No hurry, no rise in tone. Just presence.
The customer didn't answer, merely wandered between the curated frames on the wall—street scenes in black and white, lovers caught mid-laughter, a broken bicycle beneath a streetlamp. None of the photos were of him. Mikhail never took self-portraits. There was no room for vanity in his work—or in his cover.
He emerged from the darkroom moments later, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. He wore black today, as always. A simple turtleneck, tailored slacks. Understated. Clean. The kind of elegance that left no fingerprints.
"Film drop-off?" he asked, eyes briefly scanning the man's coat for the odd bulge of a wire or hidden lens.
The customer nodded and handed over a plain envelope. Mikhail's fingers brushed his, and in that moment, a dozen calculations clicked into place behind his unreadable expression. Weight. Texture. Seal. Not standard.
"I'll have these ready in two days," he said, already turning toward the back. "If you need rush service, come earlier."
The man left without a word.
Mikhail stood in the quiet that followed, fingers tightening briefly around the envelope. The cat—smoke-grey and spoiled—leapt silently onto the countertop and curled into a loaf beside the coffee. It blinked at him with supreme indifference.
He stroked its fur once, thoughtful.
Two days, he had told the man.
But he'd open the envelope tonight.
---
Leonhart
The office smelled like burnt coffee and printer toner.
Leonhart Fischer leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, the other holding a file he wasn't really reading. His eyes, warm and golden-brown, drifted toward the window. Rain streaked down the glass in lazy trails, softening the city into a blur. He liked weather like this. It made people slower. Calmer. Easier to track.
The office around him hummed with the low chatter of phones and the rhythm of keystrokes. It looked like any other generic tech company—modular desks, whiteboards cluttered with diagrams that meant nothing, a communal snack bar that no one ever refilled. A perfect cover.
He exhaled through his nose and flipped the file shut, tossing it onto his desk. It landed next to a photo—just a simple snapshot, black and white. Taken in a quiet shop across town. Mikhail had printed it for him, something about light and shadow. Leonhart hadn't asked for it, but he hadn't stopped looking at it either.
That damn man.
He scratched the back of his head, pushing sandy curls from his eyes. He hadn't meant to move in with Mikhail, not really. It had just... happened. Two guys in the city, rent's a bitch, and Mikhail had extra space above the shop. It was practical. Logical. Nothing suspicious.
He laughed under his breath. Right.
Mikhail was a mystery wrapped in smooth turtlenecks and knowing silences. He moved like a shadow and spoke like he'd never needed to shout. Leonhart was convinced the man dreamt in grayscale. Still, he'd caught glimpses of something warmer—quiet acts of care, the way he always left the hallway light on when Leon came home late. The way the cat curled against Mikhail's side like it had been born there.
Leonhart glanced toward the clock. Almost time for the "weekly check-in" with his handler—company policy, they said. But he wasn't buying it. He hadn't bought it for months.
He stood, rolling his shoulders, his broad frame unfolding with ease. His shirt was wrinkled, tie half-loosened. He looked nothing like the ideal company man. That was the point.
As he stepped out of his office, he paused by the photo again.
"You're hiding something," he murmured, tapping the edge of the frame.
But hell—so was he.