ROMAN

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

I stared out the window of my Moscow apartment, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. The cool glass pressed against my forehead as I sighed, my breath fogging up the pane. My phone buzzed insistently on the nearby table, my father's name flashing on the screen.

I knew I should answer it. I'd been avoiding my family's calls for weeks now, making excuses about being too busy with work. But the truth was, I just didn't want to talk to them. Every conversation left me feeling drained and irritated.

The buzzing stopped, then started again almost immediately. I groaned, pushing myself away from the window and grabbing the phone.

"Hello, Father," I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

"Roman! Finally, you answer. I've been trying to reach you for days," my father's gruff voice came through the speaker.

"I've been busy. You know how it is with work," I replied, the lie coming easily to my lips.

"Too busy to talk to your own father? That's no excu