The snow arrived hesitant, less a blanket than a sigh breathed onto the city's grey face. It clung for a moment, spectral white against the brickwork and black asphalt, then dissolved into the pervasive New York damp, a premature thaw that mirrored the ache settling deep in Viktor Malinin's chest. He rasped a gloved hand over his jaw, the unfamiliar terrain of week-old stubble a small, tactile rebellion against the precise discipline that had governed his life until now. Until her.

There she was, descending the brownstone steps, a fragile silhouette against the gloom in a coat far too thin for this treacherous weather. An indictment of his protection, perhaps. He moved towards her, his gaze cataloging her – the slight flush on her cheeks, the quickening of her breath – with the involuntary precision of a sniper acquiring a target. Yet beneath the ingrained habit, something else stirred.

He took her hands. Small bones, surprising warmth radiating through his leather gloves into his own cold flesh. The words he had rehearsed, cold and necessary, felt like shards of ice on his tongue. The Syndicate was weeping poison again. The docks... not an incident, but an overture. Whispers in a viper's nest promising only more venom. And she was the unintended consequence, the civilian caught in crossfire orchestrated by their Malinin folly.

His gaze held hers, the grey-blue of his eyes darkening. "Мышонок (little mouse)," the endearment escaped, a treacherous softening. "You must leave." The words were stones dropped into still water. "This is not... negotiable. It is an order."

His gaze lingered on the lines of her face as if committing a vital map to memory before battle. Against the muted canvas of the falling snow, the delicate architecture of her cheekbones, the slight parting of her lips, seemed both impossibly real and achingly ephemeral. Individual flakes drifted down, alighting on the dark sweep of her eyelashes. They clung there, miniature stars of ice, catching the dim city light before dissolving into glistening tears against the cool skin beneath. He watched, held captive by this detail of impossible fragility.

Her face crumpled slightly, a subtle shift that sent a tremor through him. "Do not argue," he said, the plea rough, torn from a place he kept locked away. "Пожалуйста (Please). Today. I require... operational latitude. Room to maneuver." The lie felt thin. "I need the field clear, do you see? With you here, I'm tethered, blind."

A void yawned within him, cold and familiar. The soldier's premonition rarely betrayed him. A sickening lurch – is this the final frame? He fought down a surge of futile rage, forcing sharpness back into his features.

Her shiver, whether from the biting air or his words, transmitted itself through their linked hands. He saw his own breath plume white against the falling snow, a fleeting flag of truce in a war he couldn't win. With a low sound, something between a growl and a sigh, he pulled open the heavy wool of his coat, drawing her into the dark warmth. His chin found the crown of her head.

"Дурочка (foolish girl)," he murmured, the sound swallowed by the fabric and the quiet street. "Freezing. You own a proper coat. Why emerge like this?" The chiding was a ghost of tenderness, a lament for the ordinary life they couldn't have.

Around them, the snow fell, indifferent, dusting the quiet street, witnessing the silent, irrevocable decision. No one else. Just them, and the weight of what was already set in motion.