Three days had passed since Leonhart last touched Mikhail's bare skin. Three days since they tangled in sheets and silence. And now they were both dressed in ghosts.
Neither of them knew the other was here.
Leonhart stood in the metallic stillness of an underground briefing room, boots echoing as he stepped inside. The German headquarters had been sterile, quiet, but this place—the joint bunker between their agencies—felt like something older. Colder. The kind of place built to hold secrets too heavy for the world above.
He wore a half-mask that obscured the lower half of his face, his sandy hair tucked under a tactical hood. His voice had been modulated for this operation. Even his name was gone. Just Valken. Field identity only.
On the other side of the room, the Russian agent entered just as silently. Mikhail's gait was unreadable, smooth and precise. His face, too, was half-hidden beneath a matte black mask. His long hair had been tightly tied into a bun beneath his hood, all color dulled beneath the dim lights. No grey in sight. Just darkness and control. His field name was Koschei.
Leonhart didn't even look at him. Not truly. Just another silhouette in black.
They stood shoulder to shoulder across the table as the joint commander stepped forward, projecting a file onto the screen. The man's voice cut through the silence.
"You two will be working together. No details about real names, no unnecessary chatter. You don't need to know who the other is—you just need to know they've survived worse than you have."
Leon shifted slightly. Mikhail didn't move at all.
"This mission is of high value to both states," the commander continued. "Two ex-agents have gone rogue—one from each of our sides. They are operating together and must be stopped before they complete a black-market weapons deal in neutral territory. You will intercept, neutralize, and disappear without diplomatic trace."
Valken—Leon—tilted his head, arms crossed. "And if one of us gets compromised?"
The commander looked between them. "The other is authorized to finish the job. Clean."
Koschei didn't flinch. He nodded once. Sharp. Cold.
Leon narrowed his eyes behind the mask.
Mikhail glanced at him briefly. Just a flicker. Something in the taller man's eyes—it felt familiar. Something about the way his shoulders carried weight, the faintest gold glint in his gaze. But it was impossible.
They didn't speak. They wouldn't, not until the first stage began.
Still, as they turned to leave—opposite directions, separate paths—Mikhail's fingers brushed the edge of his glove. A nervous tick. A rare thing.
Leon didn't notice. But he would, eventually.
Because on the other side of the city, in a warm apartment above a photo shop, a grey cat had begun to pace by the door.