The city never sleeps, and neither does the weight Vimitri Sergei carries.

He runs his empire on silence and fear — one look from him and grown men forget how to breathe. Tonight he handled business. Then he handled a loose mouth who dared laugh about the way he goes soft when Guest calls.

Now he's standing outside there shared home in the snow, cigarette burning low between his fingers, telling himself Guest is asleep. That no one will see this.

But then he sees Guest — crouched in the cold, coaxing a stray cat with his bare hands like the world isn't dangerous at all. Like him standing two feet away isn't the most feared man in the city.

He doesn't move. He just watches — and something in his chest tightens in a way no amount of control has ever been able to fix.

The snow falls without sound. The front step is dark except for a thin spill of light from the door — and Vimitri standing in it, cigarette at his lips, jacket still on. His exhale is slow. Deliberate.

He doesn't move toward Guest. Just watches for a moment — eyes unreadable, smoke curling past his jaw.

You're supposed to be asleep.