Chapter Text
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
Shane Hollander was familiar with this type of bar. They were always dim enough to discourage scrutiny, but loud enough to swallow pauses. And more importantly expensive enough that no one asked why you were there alone on a Tuesday night.
It was an intentional choice.
He ordered in French without thinking about it, switching to English halfway through the sentence when the man responded with an accent that wasn’t quite local.
He took his drink and turned slightly, giving himself a clear line of sight to the room. Force of habit, really. Though he couldn’t remember the last time habit had felt like he was holding his breath for something.
***
In his public life, he was Shane Hollander who worked in finance.
It was the kind of profession that required travel, discretion, and an indifference to time zones. His job title was impressive enough to end questions and vague enough to survive them. People accepted it without curiosity, which was the real credential. He moved through airports and boardrooms with the ease of someone whose presence never invited scrutiny, whose explanations arrived prepackaged and complete.
Privately, well, that was a different matter.
That part of his life was quieter. Smaller--not in scope, but in its focus on details. It was built out of observation and patience rather than force. He was recruited young, not because he wanted to be, but because CSIS recognized the kind of mind that could be shaped quietly.
On paper, CSIS didn’t run foreign field operatives. That distinction mattered. It allowed Canada to claim moral distance--intelligence without intervention, analysis without blood on the floor.
In practice, there was a subdivision that existed precisely to violate that boundary. It was buried so deeply inside the organization it didn't appear in budgets or oversight committees. Little Sister, internally. The kind of name that suggested something harmless.
CSIS was referred to internally as the Sisters--a bureaucratic joke that suggested balance, oversight, and restraint. Little Sister existed to do the work the others pretended not to see. It handled the work that couldn’t survive daylight. The kind that required agents to move across borders without protection, without acknowledgment, and without the expectation of retrieval if something went wrong.
You didn’t apply. You were identified. Observed. Pressed, quietly, until you either folded or proved you could operate without leaving fingerprints.
Shane hadn’t been asked whether he wanted the job. He’d been shown he was already doing it.
He noticed things most people filtered out as noise and retained them without effort: things like faces after a single meeting, routines without intention, accents that sharpened or softened depending on who was listening.
Languages also came easily to him. French, English, Japanese; he could switch between them the way other people adjusted posture, unconsciously and without apology. Movement came just as naturally. Playing college hockey had taught him balance and timing, including how to anticipate contact before it happened, how to read intention in the angle of a body rather than the direction of a gaze. University taught him something more useful: how to sit still, how to let people talk past him, how to be underestimated without correcting the mistake.
It all turned out to be an excellent combination for a spy.
***
The crowd on this night was unremarkable. Just the usual locals, travelers, men and women killing time between obligations. He allowed his attention to drift without fixing on anyone long enough to be noticed.
Then the air seemed to stir. He looked up.
Ilya Rozanov had just entered the bar.
Shane recognized him immediately. He didn’t know him personally, no--but being Canadian and having played the sport himself back at McGill, he knew enough. Rozanov was the kind of name that you didn’t forget. A former hockey phenom who dominated the league and walked away at the height of his career, leaving behind speculation no one ever managed to confirm. Shane had followed the sport long enough to know the outlines of that story, the collective curiosity it left unresolved.
Rozanov looked different in person; different from his public image. Leaner. More controlled. As though everything unnecessary had been stripped away. He scanned the room once, quickly, then turned toward the bar. Toward Shane.
“You’re blocking my seat,” Rozanov said--like this was a fact and not a challenge.
Shane glanced to his left. The stool was empty. He looked back. “That’s unfortunate.”
Rozanov’s eyes flicked down, briefly, to the name tag stuck to Shane’s jacket.
HELLO MY NAME IS
SHANE HOLLANDER
Global Finance Summit
“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov read the badge, toying with the consonants in his mouth. “If you wear this, people will want to introduce themselves.”
Shane exhaled a quiet laugh and shifted, just enough to make the offer unmistakable. “You’re welcome to share it.”
Rozanov smiled, slow and unapologetic, and took a seat. “Easier than I thought.”
“You seem experienced,” Shane said.
“Yes,” Rozanov agreed, unbothered.
Beside him, Rozanov settled in. Shane was immediately aware of heat and proximity. There was a stillness to him that suggested control rather than hesitation. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong in rooms like this. And Shane had learned not to underestimate men who didn’t rush.
“Ilya Rozanov.”
“I know who you are,” Shane replied.
“Most people stare,” Rozanov explained, “You didn’t.”
“I try to avoid the obvious.”
A faint sound left Rozanov’s throat. It was close to a laugh, “This is dangerous habit.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Their knees were close now. Not quite touching, but just close enough to register.
“Finance?” Rozanov asked, glancing again at the badge.
“Among other things.”
“Ah, Mr. Businessman.”
Shane turned slightly, meeting his gaze. “And you?”
Rozanov shrugged, “Retired. Playing got boring. I left.”
“That explains the retirement. People don’t usually walk away from dominance out of boredom.”
“No. But sometimes staying is expensive.”
The sentence was simple. The meaning was not.
As Shane took another sip of his drink, he felt it. There was a light pressure against his foot. Rozanov’s shoe nudged his, once, as if by accident.
Shane stilled. He did not look down.
The contact lingered just long enough to be undeniable. Never insistent or demanding. It was a question, posed without words.
This was reckless, he thought--and noted that the realization wasn’t slowing his pulse.
His body reacted before his mind did, heat pooling low, attention narrowing with surgical precision. He was acutely aware, suddenly, of how close the other man was--of the angle of his thigh, the warmth radiating through wool and denim.
Rozanov did not look at him. That, Shane realized, was the most dangerous part.
He shifted his foot; not away, but just enough to acknowledge the contact. Controlled. Measured. Easy, Shane.
Rozanov’s mouth curved, barely.
“So,” he said lightly, as if nothing had happened, “are we pretending all night?”
Shane set his glass down carefully. The name on his jacket suddenly felt less like his cover story and more like an invitation.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think we are.” He told himself this was just curiosity. He had been wrong about worse things.
***
They started to leave without announcing it to each other. There was no dramatic pause, no exchanged look meant to be noticed. Shane settled his tab, Rozanov followed, and they moved toward the door with the quiet coordination of men who had already agreed on something without saying it aloud.
Outside, the night air was cool and damp, the street washed in yellow light. Zurich moved softly around them--cars passing, voices drifting, life continuing without interest in what Shane had just set in motion.
They walked side by side. Not touching, but not quite separate.
“You’re staying nearby,” Rozanov said. It was not a question.
“Same hotel as the conference,” Shane replied. “Two blocks.”
They stopped at the curb. A car passed, headlights briefly illuminating Rozanov’s face. He was all sharp lines, calm expression, eyes intent and unreadable.
“You changed your mind?” Rozanov asked as they approached Shane’s hotel.
“No.” Shane exhaled, measured. “I don’t bring people back to my room.”
A pause.
“Rules,” Rozanov said.
“Boundaries,” Shane corrected him.
Rozanov considered him, then nodded. “Mine is close. Nothing special.”
Shane was used to controlling the terrain. To knowing exits and blind spots before committing. Somehow, he chose not to.
“Show me,” he said.
***
The other hotel was older, quieter. Fewer cameras in obvious places. The lobby smelled faintly of polish and coffee that had been sitting too long. Shane clocked it all without comment as they crossed the floor and headed for the lifts.
The ride up was silent. Not awkward, but intent hung in the air.
Inside the room, everything was impersonal in the way only hotels can be; the neutral colors, an unmade bed, a jacket tossed over a chair like it never quite made it off his shoulders.
“You want something?” Rozanov asked. “Drink?”
“What do you have?”
Rozanov opened the minibar without checking labels. “Vodka. Water. Something local I don’t like. Sodas.”
“I’ll take the ginger ale.”
Their fingers brushed as he handed Shane the can. This time, neither pretended it was accidental.
“You didn’t hesitate,” Rozanov said quietly.
“About?”
“Coming here.”
“I did,” Shane replied, “Just not for long.”
Rozanov stepped closer. Shane could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of soap and something sharper underneath. There was a restless energy to him up close, like he was always half a second from motion.
“You trust fast,” he murmured.
“You think this is trust?”
“Then what?”
Shane considered him. The man who walked away at the top of the game and never explained why.
“A calculated risk,” Shane answered.
Rozanov smiled then--wide, pleased, a little dangerous. “Good. I like risk.”
He leaned in slowly, giving Shane time to step back.
Shane didn’t. Instead, he closed the distance himself, mouth brushing Rozanov’s. It was light at first, borderline questioning. The kiss was brief, restrained, more suggestion than claim, but it sent a sharp awareness through him all the same. Rozanov stilled for half a second, surprised, then responded--as though he’d been waiting for exactly this.
There was no rush. Just heat, building.
When they parted, it was by inches, foreheads nearly touching.
“Still a risk,” Rozanov mumbled.
Shane leaned in again, answering without words.
Yes, he thought and already knew it would cost him.