The night was thick with silence, broken only by the crunch of boots pressing through the frostbitten ground. Anya adjusted the strap of her bag, eyes scanning the snow-covered path ahead. Alek walked beside her, a rare moment of seriousness on his face.
"This is the spot," he said quietly, pointing to an abandoned outpost just ahead. "It used to be a communication relay. The officer still sends scouts here to check the logs."
Anya gave a nod. "Then it's the perfect place to plant false intel."
They moved quickly, slipping inside the crumbling structure. The air inside was colder than outside, laced with old metal and damp decay. Anya knelt by the shattered panel, retrieving the forged documents and the miniature transmitter from her coat.
"I'll plant the signal near the power box. If they find this… it'll lead them right into the trap."
She worked fast, hands steady despite the chill. Alek stayed near the entrance, on alert. But the silence outside twisted suddenly—too quiet, too still.
Then it shattered.
A noise—a sharp click of a rifle.
"Down!" Alek shouted, grabbing Anya and pulling her behind cover just as bullets tore through the doorframe.
Two figures burst in. Black-clad, masked, and silent. Not soldiers. Guards. The officer's personal shadows.
One charged at Alek, and the fight exploded in a blur. Fists slammed into flesh, metal clashed against bone. Anya rolled aside, drawing the small knife from her boot. She moved like a ghost—silent, fast, merciless. She slashed across one man's side, sending him stumbling.
The second lunged at her, but Alek intercepted him, taking a punch that cracked across his jaw. He grunted, but didn't fall—his body shielded hers.
"You okay?" he breathed, glancing at her.
She nodded. "You're bleeding."
"Eh," he grinned faintly, "Gives me character."
With a final kick, the last man hit the ground unconscious. They stood panting, the transmitter blinking quietly behind them.
"We need to get out," Anya muttered. "Someone could've heard that."
They vanished into the snow.
---
Elsewhere…
Damian stood by his window, eyes narrowed at the distant hills. A soft thud of something echoed in the night—faint, but not natural. His instinct twitched.
He strapped on his coat and grabbed his sidearm, slipping out without a word. The forest was cold and quiet, but tension curled in the wind like smoke.
He reached the edge of the outpost ruin just as the moon broke through the clouds. No one in sight. But something caught his attention—
A scarf. Tangled in a low bush. Light gray, speckled with blood. One he recognized.
His brows drew together.
He knelt, fingers grazing it. A strange, bitter twist formed in his chest. Too many coincidences. Too many whispers.
"Anya," he murmured under his breath. "What the hell are you doing?"
He stood slowly, eyes still fixed on the path ahead.