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“Maria Tarasova.”

“Ah.” He replaces his glasses, folding his hands on the desk. “Now I understand the visit.”

“Is she here?”

“That depends on what you’re offering for the information.”

I’ve spent enough time in Russia to understand the dance. I remove an envelope from my jacket, placing it on his desk without comment. He doesn’t touch it, merely glances at its thickness.

“Patient confidentiality is a serious matter,” he says, though his tone suggests otherwise.

I add a second envelope. His lips twitch in what might be a smile.

“Maria Tarasova was committed in 2003,” he says finally. “Diagnosis: delusional disorder with paranoid features.”

“Who committed her?”

“Her husband. Rodion Tarasov. With supporting documentation from a Dr. Petrov.”

“And the real reason?” I ask, knowing psychiatric diagnoses in Russia often disguise political inconveniences.

Reznikov shrugs. “I believe she witnessed something. Something concerning enough that certain parties felt she should be… contained.”

“What did she witness?”

“That information would require a much more substantial conversation.” His eyes flick meaningfully to the envelopes.

I add a third. His smile widens.

“I don’t know the specifics,” he admits. “Those details aren’t in her file. But it involved your father and several high-ranking officials who have since died or disappeared.”

“And who would those officials be?” I press.

His shoulders hike. “That is a matter I have no knowledge of.”

I absorb this, filing it away for later examination. “Her condition now?”

“Remarkably stable, considering her circumstances.” He leans back in his chair. “Your mother is… resilient. She functions well enough to participate in our work program.”

“Work program?”

“Patients with practical skills contribute to the institute’s operations. Kitchen work, laundry, basic maintenance. It provides structure, purpose.” He adjusts his glasses. “Your mother was always an excellent cook. She now runs our kitchen.”

The casual mention of my mother’s cooking— something so normal, so domestic— hits with unexpected force. I remember Sunday mornings, the smell ofblini, her humming as she moved around our kitchen. Before everything shattered.

“I want to see her.”

Reznikov checks his watch. “Fortunate timing. Dinner preparation is underway. I can arrange an observation, but direct contact requires paperwork, approvals—”

Éto blyad’ neveroyátno.

It doesn’t fucking end.

I place a fourth envelope on his desk, thicker than the others. “Expedite the paperwork.”

He considers the offer, then nods once. “Wait here.”

When he leaves, I move to the window overlooking the compound. From this height, the full scope of Vostok becomes clear— a series of interconnected buildings surrounded by emptiness. No nearby towns. No accessible roads except the one I arrived on. No possibility of escape, even if one survived the cold.