He presses a gun into my hand.
“Stay close to me,” he says, voice low and lethal.
I nod once.
We both step out.
The moment my feet hit the ground, everything narrows.
The car. The road. The men.
Timofey moves first—like he’s already calculated every outcome.
And I follow.
Gunfire explodes through the air.
The sound is deafening. Sharp enough to cut through thought.
I don’t hesitate.
Neither does he.
We move together—strange coordination born from too many shared battles, too much violence lived too closely.
A man rushes from the left.
I fire once. He drops.
Another raises his weapon—
Timofey gets him before he can aim properly.
Everything becomes motion.
Instinct.
Survival.
Nothing else exists.
When the last body hits the ground, silence returns like a shockwave.
Too sudden.
Too heavy.
My chest rises and falls quickly as I scan the road.
Clear.
For now.
Then I turn to him.
That’s when I see it.
Blood.
