"Nothing yet," Kavinsky said, focusing on the letters. His voice was small and distant. An artist at work, like when he did his stick-poke tattoos, but darker. This was an act of ownership in its own way. There were only a handful of people who could read Cyrillic here, as far as he knew, and who else would carve their sins into another person?

"Hold still," he said.

-Е-Л-А-...

"And don't ask any more stupid questions."