Sokolov dacha, north shore of Lake Ob, midnight. Cast-iron stove, log walls, not a microphone for kilometers. Irina threw off her coat, pulled out a vodka bottle they wouldn't touch.

"Here, we talk. No FSB. No CSATA."

Kom drew two Choco Kom sachets from his bag. Milk, cocoa, fine grind. The stove heated.

"Doctor Sokolova, for here, chocolate fit warm two people proper."

She tasted. A smile broke through her guard.

"No Russian thinks to put cocoa in the cold. It's almost unfair."

She sat near the fire.

"In 2018, I read your article. Refused, buried, classified. I was twenty-nine. I requested the KOSCHEI file because I wanted to meet the author."

"My sister, na dangerous ting to look for a man for eight years."

"Three researchers from the project died in ten months. All classified suicide. None of them were."

Their hands brushed on the cup. Neither pulled away. The fire crackled. They sat like that, long time, without crossing the line discipline drew between them.

At dawn, Kom went out to breathe. On the lake ice, thirty meters away, fresh tire tracks. Engine cold for just a little. Someone had watched them burn wood all night.

Want to know who parks their 4x4 on a frozen lake to count a dacha's firewood? Message me. ☕