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Chapter One

Petyr

T he clock above the auditorium door ticked like a metronome of my slow death.

Ten minutes. Just ten more, and I’d be free to blink like a normal person again. Maybe even shift in my chair without the guy two rows up shooting me a look like I’d insulted Stalin’s mustache.

Vera stood on the little stage, all glowing virtue and Party righteousness, gesturing with both hands like a conductor of ideological nonsense.

Her voice—steady, polished, very official—rose and fell in a practiced cadence as she waxed poetic about the great successes of our “nationally unified textile output” and the “evolution of centralized economic metrics.”

God, what a phrase. That one alone should’ve come with a warning label.

No one was listening. I mean, technically, we were listening—just not in the way that counted.

The guy next to me had fully surrendered to sleep, chin on his chest, his mouth open in a way that made me wonder if I should drop a peanut in there for fun.

The women up front looked half-catatonically engaged, eyes glazed and polite smiles frozen in place.

It was Friday, after all. We were here because we had to be, not because anyone gave a damn about weekly Party meetings in a damp auditorium that smelled like wet coats and floor polish.

My attention drifted again to the clock. The second hand gave a jolt forward.

Eight minutes.

Vera wrapped up with a quote from Lenin—standard issue, reliably soul-numbing—and the moment her words died off, there was a clap.

Just one. Hesitant, awkward. Then others followed like dominos.

Dutiful, scattered applause. The kind of applause you give because you’re supposed to, not because you mean it.

She smiled modestly, bowed her head, and descended the stage. Her steps were quiet, graceful. She always made things look effortless.

She slid into the seat beside me and took my hand like we were every bit the perfect, loyal Party couple.

“You did great,” I whispered.

“I know,” she said under her breath, squeezing my fingers.

Five minutes now.

The man at the podium—Comrade Something-Or-Other, I’d stopped keeping track—cleared his throat and gave his closing remarks. More boilerplate. Unity, strength, vigilance. He thanked Vera, thanked the workers, thanked the Party.

The second he said “dismissed,” the room exploded.

Chairs scraped back. Boots thundered. Someone cursed loudly in the stampede toward the doors.

It was like a prison break, only with less enthusiasm.

People moved in thick waves, desperate not to miss the 7:15 train—always a risk thanks to these meetings that went ten minutes longer than they ever should have.

Vera stood with me, her hand still in mine, her face all bright smiles and wifely charm as we joined the exodus. We waved at a few coworkers, gave polite nods, and moved with the crowd.

We were halfway down the steps when Pavel and Andrei cornered us near the coat rack.

“Petyr! Vera!” Pavel shouted over the noise. “We’re going to the dacha this weekend. Vodka, cards, sauna, you know—fun stuff. You two should come.”

I gave them my best crooked grin and leaned a little closer. “Ah, if only. But this one’s locked me up for the weekend,” I said, jerking a thumb at Vera. “Says we need some alone time. And I haven’t been stupid enough to say no to her in years.”

They both howled with laughter, Pavel slapping me on the back like I’d just confessed to something heroic.

“Lucky bastard,” Andrei said, winking at Vera, who rolled her eyes like a woman used to such remarks.

We ducked away from them with more smiles and waves, leaving the sound of laughter behind us as we hit the main doors and stepped into the frigid air.

Outside, the evening had draped itself over the city like a heavy coat. Factory smoke lingered above the rooftops, backlit faintly by the dying light of day. The buzz of chatter and hurried footsteps filled the courtyard as dozens of workers rushed toward the train stop down the block.

But Vera didn’t steer us that way.

Instead, she tugged me across the street, toward a battered bus stop, its bench half-frozen and its glass covered in peeling posters for soap and canned peas. The shelter reeked faintly of piss and cigarettes, but hey—at least it was out of the wind.

“We’re not taking the train?” I asked.

Vera didn’t answer immediately. She just looked at me with that secret smile of hers, the one she only used when no one was looking.

“Nope,” she said. “We have plans.”

I raised a brow, heart kicking a little faster. “What kind of plans?”

“We have tickets,” she said, glancing both ways before lowering her voice. “To the Mariinsky Ballet.”

That stopped me cold. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about art,” she replied, smug and glowing. “Mira got us the tickets.”

I whistled low. “Nice having friends in high places.”

She winked at me, leaning just close enough that our shoulders brushed. “Don’t I know it.”

I looked down at our joined hands—still clasped, even now—and smiled.

For the next few hours, we’d be Petyr and Vera, husband and wife, loyal workers of the state.

But after that?

We’d be something else entirely.

* * *

The curtain had fallen to thunderous applause after the second act of Swan Lake, and the audience flooded the ornate lobby. Crystal chandeliers flickered overhead, casting everyone in the soft golden glow of culture and luxury. If you squinted just right, it almost looked like another world.

Vera and I stood from our velvet seats and moved with the crowd. She was already smiling, flushed with the thrill of it all, and I couldn’t help but smile with her.

"You loved it," I said as we stepped into the foyer.

"I did," she breathed, linking her arm through mine. “The corps de ballet was flawless tonight.”

We passed oil paintings of composers and Party leaders, gilded mirrors with ornate frames, and a stone-faced bust of Tchaikovsky that looked like he disapproved of everyone’s posture.

Vera led us straight to the concessions counter, a little pop-up bar nestled behind a marble column.

A boy no older than eighteen stood behind it in a too-large tuxedo shirt, handing off wine glasses and counting kopecks with trembling fingers.

Vera leaned in. “Two vodkas,” she said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

I blinked. “A splurge?”

She turned that dazzling grin on me, the one that usually meant I was about to be talked into something wild. “We deserve something nice.”

That was hard to argue with.

The boy handed us two plastic cups filled with clear, merciful warmth, and Vera dropped a few rubles onto the counter like she'd just bought a loaf of bread. We stepped back, sipping slowly, watching the room.

And that’s when I saw him.

Across the lobby, half-shadowed near one of the grand pillars, was a man watching us. Short dark hair, strong jaw, a winter coat with the collar turned up. His eyes were fixed, locked on me.

It took a second for the memory to click into place.

The park. Early morning. About a month ago.

Cold air, cold hands, a stumble into the bushes like animals.

I’d been restless, walking a loop around the edge of the canal.

He’d been behind the public toilets, already lighting a cigarette when I noticed the way he looked at me.

Just like now—intent, like he was trying to place a name he never knew.

His cock had been—well, memorable, let’s say. The rest of him was lost in the fog of risk and desperation that always came with those encounters. I hadn’t expected to see him again. That was the point of those things: no names, no follow-up. Just a moment. A fleeting, hungry escape.

I turned away.

Reflex took over before thought caught up. I leaned in and kissed Vera lightly on the cheek. “I love you,” I murmured, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

She smiled without missing a beat. “I love you too.”

And just like that, the scene was intact again.

We were the perfect couple. Handsome young factory workers, enjoying a cultured night out courtesy of her very well-connected "friend" at the Mariinsky.

I took another sip of vodka, slower this time, as the man across the room turned and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

The walk home was colder than I remembered it being when we left the factory. The kind of cold that makes your bones feel hollow. My ears were stinging, and my breath came out in little ghosts that trailed behind us as we walked in step, hands stuffed in our pockets like schoolkids.

We didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. Vera still had that quiet, dreamy smile on her face—one she only ever wore after the ballet or after Mira.

Our apartment building loomed ahead, five stories of cracked stucco and broken mailboxes. The bulb above the entrance had gone out again, and the stairwell was cloaked in shadows. I reached out to push the heavy door open—and then we heard footsteps behind us.

A woman stepped from the shadows.

She didn’t say a word. Just fell into step behind us, silent as the grave, as if she’d been waiting. Vera didn't even flinch.

We climbed the stairs, boots scuffing against old concrete, each of us wrapped in our own silence. At the fourth-floor landing, Vera pulled out our keys, unlocked the flat, and flicked on the overhead light.

“Nina? Pavel?” she called out, voice bright in that way she always faked for our flatmates.

No answer.

I stepped inside and shut the door behind us. The silence was instant and deep.

And then the two women moved.

Vera crossed the room in three steps and threw her arms around Mira. The hug was fierce and unselfconscious, like two parts of the same soul reuniting. Then they kissed—soft, aching, and slow, like no one else existed.

I turned away.

The kitchen was just down the narrow hall. I went in and found a note pinned to the cupboard door with a bent butter knife.

Gone to visit family this weekend. Please clean the bathroom. You forgot last week and it’s disgusting. Love, Nina & Pavel.

Ah, wedded bliss.

I stood there for a moment, holding the note, the yellowing paper soft between my fingers. I heard the murmurs from the other room. Words too quiet to make out. A soft laugh. A sigh. The creak of the old armchair giving way under someone’s weight.

They needed time. Time to be who they were, not who they pretended to be.

I didn’t bother taking off my coat. Just walked back through the front room and said, “I’m heading out for a few hours.”

Neither of them asked where I was going.

They knew.

I left the apartment and took the stairs two at a time, my heart already ticking a little faster. The chill slapped me in the face the second I stepped back outside, but I welcomed it. It meant I was really out here, in the city, untethered for a little while.

I knew exactly where I was going.

Sanctuary.

It never had a sign. Never stayed in the same place for long. One week it was in the basement of a shuttered bathhouse. The next, an abandoned paper mill with blackout curtains and candles in vodka bottles. Tonight? I’d find it. Someone always knew.

As I crossed the street and tucked my scarf tighter around my neck, I grinned to myself.

I had a few hours, a little money in my pocket, and a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

Let’s see what handsome stranger the night had in store for me.