Damian remained rooted in place, his gaze following the figures of Anya and the new operative as they disappeared into the distance. They spoke quietly, heads slightly bowed in conversation, steps light against the snow. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but the image lingered long after they vanished from view.
That strange, uneasy feeling clung to him like fog. Something about her presence gnawed at the edges of his mind, sharp and persistent.
He looked down at his hand.
There it was.
The pendant.
He'd found it during that last mission—half-buried in the scorched soil near the enemy outpost. At the time, it had been just another forgotten item lost in the chaos. But now, under the pale afternoon light, it felt like a piece of something larger. Something personal.
He turned it over between his fingers.
And then he remembered.
He had seen it before—around her neck.
Anya Petrova.
It had caught his eye once in passing, glinting faintly under the edge of her coat. Just for a second. A detail easily missed... unless you were trained to notice everything.
So what was it doing out there? Near that outpost? Near where someone—someone unseen—had saved his life?
His jaw tightened.
"Anya," he murmured to himself.
Two names began to echo in his thoughts.
Anya Petrova.
Anya Blackwood.
The operative they had been hunting. The spy with no face. No confirmed photograph. Just rumors and footprints left in blood.
Same name. Same precision. Same invisible thread weaving between disasters and survival.
He shook his head once, slowly.
It couldn't be.
Could it?
His grip on the pendant tightened before he slipped it into his pocket.
No—he wouldn't report anything. Not yet.
He didn't trust guesses. And he didn't trust coincidences.
He needed the truth. And if it was her—if Anya Petrova was really Anya Blackwood—he would be the one to uncover it.
Quietly.
Alone.
Because if he was right, then the real war hadn't even begun yet.