Morning was just beginning to stain gray the panes and pavement. Shadows were softened, odors of exhaust and industry remote. Dew beaded like sweat on wrought iron railings.

Climbing the steps from Del Flora’s, Kuryakin’s senses shivered like a guitar string, taking in every detail of the scene; a flutter of paper, parked cars, an odd number of pigeons overhead. Nothing seemed out of place.

He turned his face toward the East, where light struggled against darkness to win the chance to caress his face with warmth.

New York City was not awake yet. Illya contemplated the possibility of sleep.