Vasiliy doesn't miss the trace reluctance in his answer, the reality that seeps through the gap between the first attempt at a sentence and what Huaisang concludes with. It's a familiar inflection, accompanied by something unscientific he can't place but acutely feels, a sort of knowing that borders on the backwards mysticism of the most outlying oblasts.

He's spent most of his life around people at their breaking points, when he thinks about it; ironically, the perhaps unintentional expression of weariness and stoicism is the most familiar thing about this peculiar individual. The artificial smile and lack of complaint have always been a feature of his landscape: his parents, during the World War and the Civil War, everyone during the shortages and unbelievable overcrowding that came with the fits and paroxysms of a new way of life being established, his fellow interrogators in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was up and they still weren't on the metro home.

And he does feel sympathy for him, in the shallow sort of way he's able to allot to potential class enemies. Vasiliy glances down at his hands, at the face of the watch he's barely able to see. It's still incredible that there's so much of everything, that Daylight is able to offer food and commodities like coffee this freely.

"It gets easier."