The cabin door closed with a soft thud behind her, leaving Damian standing in silence once again. He held the warm coffee cup in one hand, his other gripping the pendant tightly.
He hadn't asked her to come. He hadn't expected her to smile like that either—like nothing had changed. But something had changed.
He placed the cup on his desk without a sip and turned back to the half-scattered papers across his table. The files he had stolen from Ivankov's inner circle weeks ago. Redacted reports. Surveillance logs. Old codenames.
And one in particular: Anya Blackwood.
He stared at the name again. It was just a file, grainy photos attached, but something about the way she moved, her eyes in those blurred shots, reminded him of someone else—Anya Petrova.
It didn't make sense. Why would she use the same first name for a cover?
Unless she wanted to be found.
He shook his head. "That's stupid," he muttered. "Too obvious."
But the pendant in his palm argued otherwise. He had seen it—hanging from her neck, glinting beneath her scarf the night of the mission.
If she had been there, if she had followed them into the firefight… why? What was her angle?
Damian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He didn't have enough. Not yet.
---
Elsewhere, deep within the village's woods—
Anya adjusted her gloves as she and Alek entered the abandoned barn they now used as their temporary base of operations. Dust filtered through the wooden slats, the light catching on floating specks like ash from a long-dead fire.
Alek tossed his bag to the ground and leaned against the support beam, watching her with a lazy grin. "You always look like you're walking into war. Relax, Blackwood."
She gave him a pointed look. "I am walking into war."
He chuckled, reaching into his coat for the folded blueprints they had stolen the week before. "Fair. But this war needs strategy—and a bit of charm, don't you think?"
Anya didn't answer immediately. Her mind was still on Damian—on how he had looked at her earlier, like he wasn't sure whether to trust her or tear her apart.
She snapped herself out of it.
"Let's go over the plan again," she said, stepping closer to the map he had spread over a crate.
The target: a high-ranking officer who never traveled without an entourage. Public assassination was off the table. They needed a trap—silent, clean, and irrefutable.
"We intercept the truck here." She pointed to the narrow pass near the ravine. "Create a delay, maybe a fake checkpoint."
"And I'll plant the explosives under the bridge," Alek added, his tone suddenly serious. "Enough to trap, not kill. We want him breathing. For now."
She nodded. "Once we've got him, we extract the data, transmit it to HQ—and then he disappears."
Alek studied her face quietly for a moment. "You've done this before, haven't you?"
"Too many times."
There was silence. Then he smiled again, softer this time. "Well, lucky for me—I've got the best."
Anya didn't answer. She just smirked slightly and rolled up the blueprints.
Alek reached out and flicked a small strand of her hair back into place. "Let me know if you ever need a break from being deadly. I hear I give decent hugs."
Anya arched a brow. "I'll add that to your list of qualifications."
---
Back at the base, later that night—
Damian sat outside the barracks, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His eyes tracked a distant figure crossing the yard—Anya, with Alek beside her, laughing quietly at something he said.
They turned the corner together and vanished from sight.
Damian didn't know why it got under his skin. It wasn't jealousy. He didn't even know what it was. Just… something felt wrong.
Like the pieces were shifting without him. Like the truth was just out of reach, and everyone was playing a game he hadn't been invited to.
He took a final drag and crushed the cigarette under his boot.
Inside his pocket, the pendant pulsed like a weight against his skin.