FOURTEEN
ARSENY
Niko is already halfway through a report when I step inside his office.
“Door,” he says absently, not looking up from his paperwork.
I close it behind me and wait for him to look up.
He finishes what he’s writing, caps the pen, and sets it down with deliberate care.
Then he looks at me properly. “The leave went through,” he says.
“Five days. I had to move some things. You’ll need to hand some things off while you’re away. Maybe Petrov can cover.”
“Okay, good.” He waits for me to leave, but I don’t, I've put this conversation off long enough. Now is the time to be honest.
“What?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.
I sit, but I don’t relax into the chair. “It’s not just a trip,” I say. He exhales faintly, like he already knew that. “At the cabin,” I continue, choosing each word carefully before it leaves my mouth, “we decided.” That gets his full attention.
“Decided what?”
“That we’re not temporary.”
He studies my expression for a few seconds. “I didn’t think you were.” He leans back in his chair slowly, the wood creaking under his weight. “How far have you thought this through?”
“All the way.”
His jaw tightens slightly at that. “All the way,” he repeats. He’s not angry, he doesn’t even seem surprised. “Then be clear with me. You’re talking about leaving?”
“I won’t stay here forever,” I say evenly. “And when I go, it will be properly.”
He studies me again, his gaze flicking over my face slower this time, as if he’s trying to find the fracture point.
“You built your life around this,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer, because he isn’t wrong. “Leaving isn’t just paperwork and a handshake.
It’s being on the outside. It’s losing the thing that keeps you straight. ”
I know what he means. The structure. The clarity. The rules. I’ve lived inside them so long I can feel them even when I’m alone. I realise that this conversation matters more than either of us is willing to admit outright. “He’s not a rebellion,” I say. “This isn’t a reaction.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re implying it.”
“I’m trying to understand how you dismantle your entire life without thinking.”
“I am thinking, I've done nothing but think about this since he left the first time,” I say quietly. “I’ve measured it.” I continue, “Every angle. Every risk. It doesn’t work long-term, not here.”
“And you’re willing to walk away from all of it?”
“For him, yes.”
He leans back again slowly. “And if it surfaces before you’re ready?”
“It won’t.”
His jaw tightens. “It doesn’t just effect you if this goes wrong.”
“I know.”
“It’s Cassie, Vladimir, me—”
“I know,” I repeat, and this time I let him see that I’ve thought about it. That I’ve already factored them into every scenario.
“You’re choosing him,” he says finally. “You’ve never chosen anyone over this.”
“I’m not choosing him over you.” The words come before I can calculate them.
Something in his expression shifts. “That’s not what I meant,” he says.
“I know. I’m just making it clear.”
“How long?” he asks after a moment.
“I don’t know yet.”
That earns me a sceptical look. “You never make moves without a plan.”
“I will have one soon.”
“You’ve thought about what happens after,” he says eventually, not as a question but as an assessment.
“I have.”
“Beyond the emotional part?”
“Yes.” He nods once at that, faintly approving.
“There are men who leave and turn it into theatre, and there are men who leave and position themselves properly. You’re not the first type.
” He reaches for the pad on his desk as if he’s about to note something operational.
Instead, he writes down what looks like a phone number without explanation.
He tears the edge cleanly and slides it across the desk toward me.
I look at it but don’t touch it yet. “What is it?”
“A contact. Private military. Infrastructure contracts mostly. Oil, logistics, corporate protection. They approached me a few years ago. At the time, I wasn’t looking beyond this. They left a number in case that changed.”
Silence stretches between us. I understand what he’s doing, even if he won’t say it.
“If you leave,” he continues, “don’t anchor yourself somewhere that creates a narrative.
” I lift my eyes to him. “For example, relocating to the UK would look... deliberate,” he explains calmly.
“It raises questions. Men who’ve done it tend to position themselves somewhere neutral first. Germany.
The Netherlands. Somewhere that doesn’t belong to either side.
Somewhere neutral.” He says it like a strategy, not like he’s discussing my relationship.
“They pay really well,” he adds. “And they don’t ask sentimental questions. ”
“And if I never use it?”
“Then you don’t,” he replies evenly. “But if you do decide to go, it’s an option.” I fold the paper once and slide it into the inside pocket of my jacket. He doesn’t look at me when I do. “Five days,” he says instead. “Don’t make me regret pushing your leave through.”
“I won’t.”
The corridor outside his office is unchanged. It’s the same fluorescent lights, the same muted voices through closed doors. Nothing looks different, but I’m carrying a number now, and I have a direction.
When I leave, I can’t live in the UK. A Russian special operations sergeant resigning and relocating directly to Britain doesn’t read as retirement. It reads as defection, even if it isn’t. And once that story exists, it can’t be undone.
If I ever want to come back here without explanation — to see Niko, to see Vladimir — I can’t close that door.
Neutral territory makes more sense. Somewhere neither flag owns. Amsterdam fits that logic, which is why, when Niko suggested it, I agreed. It’s a common travel destination. Civilian and close enough to reach, and far enough not to belong.
The barracks are mostly empty when I return. I retrieve the phone from its hiding place, stashed in one of the empty single rooms. I sit on the edge of the bed and power it on.
Caiden answers on the second ring. I keep the conversation brief. Leave next month. Five days. Amsterdam. He doesn’t hesitate; he tells me to send the dates when I have them, and he’ll make it work.
I tell him I spoke to Niko, and he goes quiet at that.
Surprised, maybe? He listens in the way he usually does, as if he is weighing every word.
We agree to talk about it in person, and when I hang up, it feels contained, controlled, exactly how it needs to be.
But it sits differently in my head after.
It’s not theoretical anymore. It’s not something I can store away and come back to later.
It’s there now, fixed, waiting for me to follow through.