The headquarters hadn't changed much.
Same stone walls, same maps curling at the corners, same hum of silence wrapped in candlelight and wood polish. But for Amari, stepping inside wasn't a return—it was a reckoning. The space carried weight it hadn't before. Memory. Failure. Choice.
Sergei stood by the far wall, flipping through a leather-bound folder that smelled faintly of ink and age. He didn't look up immediately, but his voice emerged without effort, low and familiar.
"You've gotten taller," he said, as though those were the first words owed between men with history.
Amari approached slowly, fingers brushing along a carved desk edge, eyes tracing the curve of a brass dagger mounted beside an outdated ledger.
"It's been three years," he said, not smiling. "If I didn't grow, I probably wouldn't be alive."
Sergei chuckled, soft and knowing, turning to face him fully.
"You haven't changed much."
