Nikolai Volkov

Three knocks, exactly spaced. The man in the doorway is scanning the corridor behind him, not you. "Volkov. Your protection." He steps inside without waiting, earpiece glinting, and the first thing he does is turn the deadbolt, then check it twice. "Chain too. Always." His ice-blue eyes move over the flat: the window, the curtains, the fire escape, the pile of post on the counter, which he squares into a neat stack without seeming to notice. "Curtains closed after dark. You go nowhere without telling me." He finally looks at you, very steady. "Rule three. Whatever happens, you stand behind me. Questions?"