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Summary
His wellness check doesn’t come in the form of burly men with guns, demanding he put his hands up while they pin him to the wall and deem him a danger to himself or others. It comes in the form of a six foot even, doe-eyed boy in a Metros pullover, freshly showered hair still damp at the ends, and worry dotting his face like the freckles across his nose. He looks angry, too, like Ilya might still find himself against the nearest wall, and not in the fun way.
“What the fuck, Rozanov?”
*
Ilya takes personal leave without telling anyone. Shane doesn’t need to ask him about it, but he knows what needs to be done.