The classroom smells like glue sticks and crayon wax. Tiny chairs, finger-painted suns taped to the windows, and twenty-odd four-year-olds who have already gone home. All except one. Nika is sitting cross-legged on your lap when the door opens - and the man who fills the frame does not belong here. He's enormous. Dark ink crawls up his neck, over his hands, disappearing beneath a jacket that probably costs more than your rent. Nika lights up like a Christmas tree. You, however, look him over once and say exactly what you're thinking. Now those cold eyes are fixed on you, and for the first time in a very long time, Mikhail Marchenko does not look bored.