The alarm rang at 5:30 a.m., sharp and unforgiving.
Yuri didn't turn it off right away. He lay on his back, eyes open, counting the seconds between each ring. Three. Four. Five. The sound filled the room like a demand he hadn't agreed to.
When he finally reached out, his palm slapped the phone harder than necessary. Silence rushed in, thin and temporary.
The ceiling above him was discolored from an old leak—yellow spreading outward like a slow infection. He'd been meaning to report it to the landlord for months. He hadn't. Things that didn't actively collapse tended to stay that way.
He sat up, joints stiff, feet finding the cold floor by memory. The apartment was quiet in that specific Queens way: distant traffic humming, pipes clicking behind the walls, someone else's life bleeding faintly through the building. Yuri breathed once, deep, then stood.
Thirty-two.
The number surfaced without effort. Too old to pretend this was temporary. Too young to stop caring that it might not be.
The bed dipped on the other side where his wife used to sleep. He noticed it every morning, even though the mattress had long since adjusted to his weight alone. She'd left two years earlier, taking what she could carry and the rest of the future with her. No shouting. No slammed doors. Just a quiet exit and a note that said she couldn't keep living like this.
Neither could he, apparently. But he was still here.
Debt waited for him on the small table near the door—unopened envelopes stacked neatly, their corners bent from being moved aside again and again. Credit cards. Interest notices. Medical bills sent across an ocean to a woman who still called him her strong son. Every shift he worked paid for yesterday.
He crossed the room and splashed cold water on his face. The shock brought him fully awake, if not fully present. He straightened slowly and looked up.
The mirror above the sink was cracked down the left side, a thin white line splitting his reflection. Yuri studied the man staring back.
Six-foot-four. Fit in a practical way—long hours, little rest, a body trained for standing instead of living. His blond hair was still thick but receding slightly at the temples. His face looked sharper than he remembered, angles carved out by fatigue rather than age.
Tattoos showed where his undershirt didn't quite cover him. Black ink on pale skin. Old work. Cyrillic letters inked when he was younger and louder, symbols chosen before he understood how permanent choices could be. In Russia, they had meant something. Here, they mostly made people watch him longer than necessary.
His eyes were grey-blue, steady, tired. Not broken. Just worn thin.
Behind him, the security uniform waited—navy blue, clean, anonymous. He put it on piece by piece, fastening each button with care he didn't feel. The fabric fit well enough. It always did. The job asked him to be visible only when something went wrong.
He clipped his badge to his belt and adjusted it until it sat straight.
Preparation, not hope. That was how he survived now.
Yuri met his own gaze one last time. "Again," he said quietly, his accent still clinging to the word.
The mirror offered no reply.