The cold in Russia was different from the cold in the Hindu Kush. In the mountains, the wind cut through you like a blade, but here, in the streets of Moscow, it was a slow death—something that crept into your bones and refused to leave.
Bruce pulled his coat tighter around himself as he made his way through the dark alleys of the city. It had taken months of digging, following whispers, and bribing the right people to find him.
His next teacher.
A ghost from the Cold War.
The Butcher of Moscow.
The Man Without a Face
His real name was Anton Markov, but no one dared to say it out loud.
During the height of the Cold War, Markov had been the KGB's most feared operative. His specialty was killing without a trace. He could snap a man's neck in a crowded room and disappear before anyone noticed. Some said he could look into a man's eyes and know his deepest fears, using them against him until he broke. Others whispered that he once tortured a man for six days straight without laying a single finger on him.
Then, one day, he vanished.
No one knew why. Some said he betrayed the KGB and went into hiding. Others claimed he had seen too much, done too much, and decided to disappear before his own people came for him.
Now, he lived like a ghost in the underbelly of Moscow, training only those he deemed worthy.
Bruce had to prove himself.
The meeting place was a rundown butcher shop on the outskirts of the city. The smell of blood and raw meat filled the air, mixing with the stink of old cigarettes and sweat.
Bruce stepped inside, and the old man behind the counter barely looked at him. Without a word, the man pulled back a curtain, revealing a door.
Bruce stepped through.
The basement was dimly lit, the walls lined with old Soviet propaganda posters, the floor stained dark with what Bruce hoped was just animal blood.
A man sat in a metal chair, smoking a cigarette.
Anton Markov.
His face was pale, his sharp features carved from stone. His eyes were dead—cold and empty, like he had seen too much and felt nothing.
"You are the American boy," Markov muttered in a thick Russian accent, exhaling smoke. "The one who thinks he can fight monsters."
Bruce met his gaze. "I don't think," he said. "I know."
Markov smirked. He flicked his cigarette to the floor and stood.
"Then let's see."
Before Bruce could react, Markov moved.
A flash of steel.
Bruce barely dodged as a knife sliced through the air, missing his throat by an inch. He stumbled back, his body moving on instinct.
Markov lunged again, faster than a man his age had any right to be. Bruce deflected the attack, but the blade bit into his forearm, slicing through his coat and drawing blood.
Pain burned up his arm, but he ignored it. He had felt worse.
Bruce countered, swinging a fist at Markov's head. The old assassin caught his wrist with an iron grip and twisted. Bruce's body followed, his arm bent at an unnatural angle, pain shooting through his shoulder.
He slammed his elbow into Markov's ribs.
The old man grunted but didn't let go. Instead, he swept Bruce's legs out from under him, slamming him to the ground with a sickening thud.
Before Bruce could react, Markov pressed the knife against his throat.
"Dead," he whispered.
Bruce panted, his breath fogging in the cold air.
Markov studied him for a moment. Then, slowly, he pulled the knife away.
"You are sloppy," he said, stepping back. "Fast, yes. Strong, maybe. But you think like a fighter." He leaned down, his dead eyes locking onto Bruce's.
"And fighters die."
For six months, Bruce trained under Anton Markov.
If Kyros had taught him to endure, Markov taught him to break.
There was no honor in this training. No rules. No fair fights. Markov drilled ruthlessness into him, forcing him to think like an assassin, not a warrior.
He taught Bruce how to fight in the dirtiest ways possible. How to gouge out an eye in a split second. How to crush a man's windpipe with a single strike. How to kill without hesitation.
Markov also taught him psychological warfare—how to get inside an enemy's head, how to manipulate fear, how to control a situation before a single punch was thrown.
"Pain is a tool," Markov would say. "Use it."
Bruce suffered.
Every day, Markov beat him, broke him, pushed him to the brink.
But Bruce refused to kill.
Every time Markov tested him—giving him a knife, telling him to finish the job—Bruce hesitated. He would incapacitate his opponents, break their bones, leave them screaming in agony, but he never killed.
It infuriated Markov.
"You refuse to step over the edge," the old assassin growled one night after Bruce had once again spared an opponent during training. "You hold back."
Bruce wiped blood from his mouth. "There's a difference between breaking a man and killing him."
Markov sneered. "And what will you do when you meet someone who does not hold back? A man who will kill you, or a child, or an innocent? Will you hesitate then?"
Bruce said nothing.
Markov stepped closer, his voice low.
"I have seen men like you before. Idealists. Dreamers." His eyes darkened. "They all end up in the ground."
Bruce trained for another two months. He learned everything Markov had to teach—every trick, every method, every dirty, brutal secret.
And then, finally, he turned it against him.
One night, Markov set up a final test. A fight to the death.
Bruce was thrown into a dark, abandoned warehouse, facing off against three men—killers trained by Markov himself. They were given knives. Bruce was given nothing.
The fight was brutal.
They cut him. Beat him. Tried to kill him.
Bruce broke one man's leg with a single stomp. He shattered another's jaw with an elbow strike. The last one, he left gasping on the floor, blood pooling around him.
When Bruce emerged from the warehouse, Markov was waiting.
The old assassin smirked. "You finally learned."
Bruce wiped the blood from his knuckles. "I learned more than you think."
Before Markov could react, Bruce disappeared into the shadows.
He had outplayed his own master.
And Markov knew it.
As Bruce left Moscow, he looked back one last time.
The Butcher of Moscow had taught him well.
But he was not his master's creation.
He would fight the monsters of the world.
But he would never become one.