Night. 34th Street.
On the second floor of a modest building, hidden behind a rear staircase, sat a private bar. No signs, no unnecessary eyes — just a heavy door and a grim-faced guard who let a certain guest in.
Inside, shadows reigned. The bar was empty, manned by a lone bartender. Candles crackled overhead, casting a soft flickering glow.
At the center stood a round table, surrounded by three men in long coats — like figures cut from a noir film.
"We were starting to think you wouldn't come, Dmitriy," rasped a voice from a man with a gray beard and a shadowy fedora.
The guest took off his coat in silence and sat at the empty chair. A waiter approached — said nothing, simply began to deal cards and chips for a poker game.
"We have serious business to discuss," said one of the men.
Dmitriy gave a faint smile.
He was unremarkable in many ways — lean, composed, with short black hair and a light stubble. His brown eyes didn't smile with him — they shimmered with calculation.
