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Sergey smiled at that, like she’d handed him the correct key. He had a way of making the call feel like it belonged to both of them, not to the other millions of people who could be listening. Nichole watched his eyes for the familiar tells - the quick glance away, the way he’d sometimes shift his body so the camera didn’t catch certain corners of his room. This week, though, he didn’t settle. He kept moving in small, restless adjustments, as if the air itself had changed.

Nichole was there for the same reason she’d shown up every week for months: to keep her friendship with Sergey alive in a world that didn’t always make space for her. She wanted the steady exchange - her English smoothing into his, his Russian landing cleanly in her ear. She wanted the flirting to stay gentle instead of turning into something sharp. And, if she was honest, she wanted to believe that the caution he’d shown before was just a cultural habit, not a warning.

Instead, his first question wasn’t about vocabulary.

He tilted his head toward the edge of her screen, where her Ukrainian flag hung from a small stand by her bookshelf. The fabric didn’t wave in any wind - there was no breeze in her apartment - but it still looked bright against the muted colors behind it. Sergey’s gaze dropped to it and stayed.

«Wait,» he said, and his voice changed. Not colder exactly - just tighter, like a rubber band pulled too far. «Nichole. Please. Turn it.»

Nichole blinked. «Turn… what?»

«The flag,» Sergey said. His English was fluent, but the words landed with urgency, the kind that didn’t ask permission. He raised one hand as if demonstrating a motion, palm down, sweeping the air. «Hide it.»

Her stomach tightened so quickly she felt it in her throat. «Why?» she asked, and tried to keep her tone light. She’d learned that if she sounded too serious, Sergey would either joke it away or retreat. «It’s just my flag.»

Sergey didn’t laugh. He leaned closer to the camera again, and Nichole could see the faint shine on his forehead, the way he looked like he’d been under a lamp for too long. «Maybe - » he started, then stopped himself. His eyes flicked to the side of his screen. «Please. Now.»

Nichole’s chair creaked as she shifted. The laptop’s webcam caught her motion, and the flag stayed in frame. Her left knee bumped the coffee table leg. Pain shot through her hip, hot and immediate, and she swallowed hard because she didn’t want Sergey to hear it in her voice.

«I’m not doing anything wrong,» she said, even though the words came out less certain than she meant. Her fingers hovered near the flag stand. The fabric felt cool when she touched it, smooth and stubborn, like it wouldn’t give up its place easily.

Sergey’s face tightened further. «Not wrong,» he said. «Just… warning. You understand? Russian president - » His mouth twisted on the English phrase, like the words were heavy. «Maybe watching. Maybe not. But safer. Hide.»

Nichole stared at him, trying to decide if he was teasing her, testing her, or telling the truth in the only way he knew how: with fear dressed as concern. She thought about the way he’d once mentioned security cameras in his building, the way he’d avoided answering certain questions with a shrug that didn’t match his smile. She thought about the military ID photo he’d sent months ago, the one he’d called «just from my past» until she couldn’t unsee the details.

«Sergey,» she said carefully, switching to Russian for a moment because it made her feel more in control. «Зачем? Кто is watching?» The question came out sharper than she intended. «Do you mean… anyone can see me?»

He exhaled, and it sounded loud through the microphone. «Yes,» he said. «Anyone. People have… eyes. In Russia. In your country too. But here - » He glanced off-screen again, and Nichole caught a brief movement in the background behind him: a door, half-open, and a strip of light cutting across a darker hallway. Then it vanished. «In Russia, they watch. Always.»

Nichole’s hand closed around the flag stand. She could do what he asked and keep the lesson going, keep the call normal, keep Sergey from turning away. Or she could push back and risk losing him - risk him deciding she wasn’t careful enough. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet, the refrigerator’s low motor clicking like a countdown.

She forced herself to breathe through the pain in her hip. «Okay,» she said, and hated how small the word sounded. «I will hide it, but you explain after.»

Sergey’s shoulders loosened a fraction, relief flashing across his face so fast she almost missed it. «After,» he agreed. «Yes. After we speak.»

Nichole stood slowly, letting the chair scrape. She kept the webcam pointed at her face as she moved, because she didn’t want him to think she was leaving. Her left hand carried the flag stand; her right hand stayed near the laptop, steadying it with fingertips that always felt a little clumsy. The fabric brushed her wrist - lightweight, stubborn - and when she lifted it, she felt how it resisted being folded.

She angled the flag out of frame and tucked it behind a bookcase panel, the kind that slid just enough to hide the bright color. When she returned, the webcam showed her face again, calm and composed like she’d never been afraid. She sat back down, and the chair met her with a soft thump.

«Now?» she asked.

Sergey watched her for a long second. «Good,» he said. «Thank you.»

The call resumed in the rhythm she’d come to rely on. Nichole pulled up a white page on her laptop and typed a Russian sentence in the chat so Sergey could correct her. He leaned in, guiding her pronunciation with patient words, and for a few minutes the world narrowed to language - warm, safe, familiar.

Then Sergey’s attention drifted again, as if he’d never truly stopped listening to something outside the conversation.

He shifted in his seat and lowered his voice. «Nichole,» he said, and the English had a new edge to it. «Don’t write too much about… politics.» He didn’t say the Russian president’s name, but the fear around it made the phrase feel like a loaded gun. «No jokes. No… words that can be misunderstood.»

Nichole kept her eyes on the screen. «You’re the one who brought it up,» she said, trying to sound casual, like she was turning a conversation into a game. «I thought we were just learning Russian.»

Sergey’s mouth twitched. «We learn,» he insisted. «But you are in America. You have… freedom. Here, not same.»

Nichole nodded, even though his explanation didn’t fit the rest of his behavior. «So what are you asking me to do?» she asked, and her voice betrayed her - she was angry now, but she didn’t want to show him how much. «Just hide my flag and say nothing?»

Sergey’s gaze flicked to the side of the screen again, quick as a bird’s movement. «Hide flag,» he repeated, like it was the only rule that mattered. «And be careful what you say to me. Sometimes… not only me.»

Nichole felt her pulse in her wrists. She’d known, technically, that video calls could be recorded. She’d even told herself to be normal about it. But Sergey had never sounded like this - never like he believed the walls had ears and that those ears belonged to someone with power.

«What do you mean,» she asked, «not only you?»

He didn’t answer right away. The hum behind him deepened, and Nichole realized it might not be background noise at all. It sounded like a motor under load, something that had just started or changed speed.

Sergey swallowed. «I mean,» he said finally, «some people like to know who is talking with foreign girls.»

Foreign girls.

The phrase hit Nichole like a cold hand. She forced herself to ignore the way her hip throbbed and instead pay attention to the details around Sergey. His room looked lived-in, yes - messy in a way that felt real, not staged. But the corners were too carefully dim. The door behind him had stayed half-open earlier. Now it looked shut, as if someone had noticed she might be seeing too much.

Nichole’s mind reached back through their months together, snagging on moments that now looked different. Sergey’s sudden insistence that she close certain apps before he called. His flirty jokes that always circled back to «be careful.» The way he’d once asked her to remove a different piece of decor - something small, something that could have been nothing. The way he’d warned her about the Russian president like it wasn’t just politeness.

«Sergey,» she said softly, and tried not to let her fear turn into accusation. «Are you… in the military?»

He looked at her, and his eyes sharpened. For a second, he seemed to decide whether to lie. Then he smiled - small, practiced, like he’d used it before.

«No,» he said.

Nichole waited, stubborn. «You’re lying,» she said before she could stop herself.

His smile faltered. The hum behind him rose again, and Nichole imagined boots in a hallway, a clipboard, a phone held too close to a face. She didn’t know why she imagined it. She just did.

Sergey’s voice went quiet. «Nichole. Please.» He leaned forward, and the camera caught the edge of his jaw, the faint redness under his eye. «Don’t say that. Not now.»

Not now meant there were times it would be safe to say it. Or times it wouldn’t.

Nichole’s throat tightened. She wanted to end the call. She wanted to keep learning Russian. She wanted Sergey to stop acting like the world was full of traps. Most of all, she wanted to believe she hadn’t already stepped into one.

«I’m hiding the flag,» she said, because she’d already agreed and she wasn’t going to take it back. «But you’re going to answer me after. What do you mean when you say someone else might be watching?»

Sergey held her gaze for another long moment, then sat back. His shoulders rose with a breath he seemed to plan. When he spoke, he sounded like he was choosing each word to fit inside a narrow box.

«I am not doing anything bad,» he said. «I just… don’t like risk. That’s all.» He paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, «And you should not like it too much.»

Nichole stared at him. The sincerity was there, buried under something else - something calculating, something that made her skin prickle. She could almost hear the machinery behind his caution, the gears turning.

The call timer in the corner ticked forward. Nichole could have switched to vocabulary games, could have returned to the comfort of conjugations. Instead, she asked the question she’d been swallowing for weeks.

«Are you safe?» she said.

Sergey’s eyes darted away for half a second. When he looked back, his expression had smoothed into something neutral again. «Yes,» he answered too quickly.

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he changed the subject in the way he always did when the conversation got too close to the truth.Он потянулся за чем-то за пределами кадра, зашуршала ткань, и Nichole услышала еле заметный лязг металлического предмета. «Смотрите», - сказал он. «Сегодня мы говорим о - »

Громкий стук прервал его слова.

Он был не со стороны Nichole; он доносился из-за спины Сергея, глухой и внезапный, как тот, что означал: кто-то не собирается ждать. Сергей замер с рукой на полпути. Его глаза расширились всего на долю. Гул позади него на секунду взвинтился, затем выровнялся.

Nichole не видела, что происходило в коридоре, но услышанного хватило, чтобы понять: Сергей застыл, слушая внимательнее, чем когда-либо слушал во время их занятий.

Последовал еще один стук. На этот раз медленнее. Голос произнес что-то по-русски, приглушенно, издалека, из-за акустики комнаты. Сергей не ответил. Он смотрел на камеру так, будто она была щитом.

Сердце Nichole сильно ударило о ребра. Ее руки похолодели на подлокотниках. Она машинально подалась микрофоном ближе. «Сергей?» - спросила она тихо.

Он моргнул один раз, затем заставил лицо снова двигаться. «Все нормально», - сказал он, и ложь была такой гладкой, что могла бы быть отрепетированной песней. «Просто - работа».

Русский голос сказал что-то еще, на этот раз ближе. Челюсть Сергея напряглась. Он слегка повернул корпус, перекрывая камере вид на дверь позади себя. Движение было едва заметным, но Nichole почувствовала в нем намерение.

Он откинулся назад к веб-камере и понизил голос. «Nichole», - сказал он, и впервые его флирт исчез. «Слушай. Ты хорошо спрятала флаг». Его тон звучал так, будто похвала может удержать ее в живых. «Теперь стоп. Продолжим на следующей неделе».

«Подожди», - сказала Nichole, в панике царапая слова. «Почему - »

Сергей быстро один раз покачал головой. Он протянулся вперед и нажал что-то за пределами кадра, и интерфейс звонка на мгновение вспыхнул сообщением, прежде чем он завершил вызов.

Экран погас, оставив Nichole наедине с ее собственным отражением в стекле ноутбука - бледной, испуганной, без флага, и внезапно одной в тихой квартире, с эхом стука Сергея.

Ее бедро пульсировало, когда она сместилась, и боль почти успокаивала, потому что она была настоящей. Она смотрела на скрытый флаг за панелью книжного стеллажа, словно он вдруг стал уязвимостью.

Затем телефон снова завибрировал. Имя Liz загорелось на экране новым сообщением, но Nichole не открыла его. Вместо этого она открыла чат Tandem с Сергеем - пальцы дрожали ровно настолько, что курсор подпрыгнул.

Никаких извинений. Никаких объяснений. Только одна строка, которую Сергей успел напечатать до того, как вызов оборвался - коротко и аккуратно:

Будь осторожна с тем, что показываешь.

End of chapter one. 44 more chapters and about 103,530 words in the full book.