Anya leaned against the counter of the dimly lit café, her fingers wrapped around the ceramic warmth of her untouched coffee. She watched the snowfall beyond the window, mind racing. Damian had dropped her off here, thinking she would stay put but she had no intention of waiting idly while the pieces of the game moved without her.
She had slipped out the back alley minutes after he left, moving swiftly through the shadows, her mind focused on the mission. Colonel Ivankov had always been a ruthless man, but his latest orders reeked of something more than strategic warfare. He wanted Damian out of the picture, sent on a mission with little chance of survival. That much was clear from the fragments of conversation she had overheard in the café, whispered between soldiers who thought no one was listening.
Anya had followed them, weaving through the streets toward the military camp, careful to keep her presence unnoticed. If she was right—and she usually was—Ivankov saw Damian as a threat. Not just a pawn to be sacrificed, but a wild card that needed to be eliminated before he disrupted the grander scheme.
By the time she reached the base's perimeter, the night had deepened, and the air was thick with tension. She adjusted the scarf around her face, blending into the shadows as she made her way past the guards. Years of training allowed her to move unseen, every step measured, every breath controlled.
Inside the command tent, Ivankov leaned over a map, his fingers tracing routes and enemy positions with the precision of a man who had done this a thousand times. His officers stood at attention, their expressions hard, unreadable.
"This mission is non-negotiable," Ivankov's voice was steel. "He leaves at dawn."
A younger officer shifted. "Sir, wouldn't it be wiser to—"
Ivankov's glare silenced him. "We don't need wisdom. We need obedience."
Anya clenched her fists. This wasn't just a high-risk mission—it was a death sentence. And Damian had no idea he was walking into it.
She needed a plan. Fast.
Slipping away before she was noticed, Anya retraced her steps, her mind already calculating. She couldn't warn Damian outright. He was too sharp, too suspicious. If she tipped her hand too soon, he would question why she cared so much. No, she needed to be subtle. To ensure he survived without him ever realizing she was the reason.
For the first time in years, Anya found herself making a move that wasn't dictated by orders or strategy.
This was personal.