Today, 12:36 AM
Jensen stood on the stoop a moment longer than necessary, the Russian winter biting through even his carefully chosen coat. The mask concealed his features, but it did nothing for the weight he carried in his chest. He hated the anonymity and the hollowness of it, but the Ascendancy had been right. If the world knew the truth of who he was and what he could do, there wouldn’t be enough walls in Moscow to hold back the tide.
White on white, his suit cut a silhouette that was elegant and deliberate. The gloves flexed with the quiet itch of his hands wanting to be bare. Healing, true healing, would require the natural skin to skin. He would doff the gloves soon enough. For now, it was too cold to consider.
The door opened, and for the briefest flicker, Jensen’s breath caught.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Poise, even when unadorned; a classic beauty. She wasn’t Jessika, of course, but the resemblance pressed on old bruises in his chest. A reminder of another life, another woman who once stood at his side and turned out to be someone completely different.
He inclined his head in greeting, voice warm but formal, softened just enough to be reassuring. “Good evening, ma’am. My name is Iāson. I understand someone here is in need of my help.”
He stepped across the threshold when she moved aside, his polished shoes sounding muted against the floors. The air inside carried a different kind of weight. Less of winter’s bite and more like a grief hanging on the air. He wondered what affliction ailed the household.
Jensen paused just inside the entry, giving Emily the dignity of space, but his attention was already drawn upward, to the second floor. He didn’t know who waited, only that they suffered. And that was enough.
He turned his masked face back toward her, gloved hands folding neatly before him. “If you’ll show me to them,” he said softly, “we’ll see what can be done.”
White on white, his suit cut a silhouette that was elegant and deliberate. The gloves flexed with the quiet itch of his hands wanting to be bare. Healing, true healing, would require the natural skin to skin. He would doff the gloves soon enough. For now, it was too cold to consider.
The door opened, and for the briefest flicker, Jensen’s breath caught.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Poise, even when unadorned; a classic beauty. She wasn’t Jessika, of course, but the resemblance pressed on old bruises in his chest. A reminder of another life, another woman who once stood at his side and turned out to be someone completely different.
He inclined his head in greeting, voice warm but formal, softened just enough to be reassuring. “Good evening, ma’am. My name is Iāson. I understand someone here is in need of my help.”
He stepped across the threshold when she moved aside, his polished shoes sounding muted against the floors. The air inside carried a different kind of weight. Less of winter’s bite and more like a grief hanging on the air. He wondered what affliction ailed the household.
Jensen paused just inside the entry, giving Emily the dignity of space, but his attention was already drawn upward, to the second floor. He didn’t know who waited, only that they suffered. And that was enough.
He turned his masked face back toward her, gloved hands folding neatly before him. “If you’ll show me to them,” he said softly, “we’ll see what can be done.”