Ippolit opened the door to the mess hall more from habit than appetite.

An abnormality in the pattern caught his eye and drew it toward the center of a cone of silence.

Liadov, dangling his MVD tormentor by the well-pressed coat.

Even angry, Liadov was tightly controlled. Not so now. Seeing him without his panache, rage contorting his face, was wrong, like the first time seeing a man without his skin.

"What now...?" slipped past Rakitin's lips, to no one.