The sky above was stained red, faint traces of gunpowder still clinging to the air like smoke from a dying fire. Alek stood alone now, his chest heaving. Snow crunched beneath his boots, soaked in blood—some his, most not. The silence was eerie. Not peaceful, not calm. Just the silence of an aftermath.
He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the air like a ghost. Ivankov was dead. The bullet he'd fired had struck the man cleanly through the heart, leaving no room for questions or regrets. The mission was complete. The real reason they had come to this godforsaken land was finished. But that didn't mean it was over.
Not for Anya.
He pulled his hood tighter, turning away from the bodies scattered behind him. There was no time to bury anything—bodies, guilt, emotions. All of it would be lost beneath the snow. All of it would vanish like ghosts.
He made his way toward the cabin, one hand loosely wrapped around his gun, the other clutching a tattered map. The cold cut through him, but his thoughts were louder than the wind. He replayed the fight. The look on Ivankov's face. The calmness in his own.
How long had it been since killing felt like anything?
---
Inside Damian's cabin, the atmosphere was heavier than it should have been.
Anya sat on the edge of the wooden table, still catching her breath from what had just happened. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but her lips were still tingling from the way Damian had kissed her—unexpected, intense, desperate. The space between them still held that tension, like an aftershock refusing to fade.
Damian leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes not quite meeting hers. The fire between them flickered, casting gold across their expressions—one guarded, the other confused.
Then, without warning, the door burst open.
"Alek—?"
He walked in without knocking, his boots soaked, coat dusted in snow and blood, and his gun still strapped tight to his chest. There were deep scratches on his jaw, but his usual calm had returned. His presence filled the space.
Anya jumped slightly, eyes widening. Damian pushed off the wall instantly, alert.
Alek blinked, freezing for a beat when he noticed how close they were—Anya still seated on the table, Damian too near.
"Oh," Alek said, raising his hands as if caught in a crime. "Did I walk in on something? My bad."
Anya rolled her eyes, flustered. "You could've knocked."
Alek smirked. "I could've. But, you know... I just killed hundred men without blinking. I think I earned some spontaneity."
Damian didn't say anything. He stared at Alek, reading him.
Alek's grin softened, and his eyes—though bright held that exhaustion only killers carried. He sat down on a nearby chair, dropping his gun to the side.
"It's done," he said. "Ivankov's dead. Real clean."
Anya blinked. "You... did it?"
"Yeah. Shot him right in the chest before he could scream. I got the documents too. Everything we came for." He looked at her, expression sobering. "But we can't stay here, Anya. They know who you are. You've been exposed."
She swallowed hard, fingers curling into the edge of the table.
Alek leaned forward. "We need to leave tonight. I already have a route. Extraction is possible if we move fast."
"And you?" Damian's voice was quiet, cold. "Leaving too?"
Alek shook his head. "Not yet. Clara's expecting me in Austria. I'll take Anya as far as the border. After that, she's someone else's shadow."
Anya's heart thudded. "But... Damian—"
"I'm not leaving," Damian said. He didn't even hesitate. "This is my country. I won't betray it."
Alek glanced between them, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. "I didn't ask you to. But don't let her get killed because of your pride."
Silence fell. Anya turned to look at Damian, pain tightening her chest.
He moved closer, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll buy you time."
Anya blinked fast. "You'll get arrested."
"Let them try," he murmured.
Alek stood. "We leave in ten. I'll wait outside."
He turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back. His smirk returned—lighter this time.
"And next time, make sure to lock the door, or at least finish what you're doing before I walk in. But I guess there won't be a next time, will there?"
Anya groaned. Damian just stared after him, unreadable.
As the door clicked shut, silence returned. Anya stood slowly, walking over to Damian. She looked up at him, eyes searching.
"You really won't come?" she asked.
"No."
She stepped closer. "Then this is goodbye."
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached for her hand, pressing something into her palm. She looked down—her pendant. The one she thought she'd lost.
"You had this?"
"I keep what matters."
Her throat tightened.
He leaned in slowly, forehead resting against hers.
"Stay alive, Anya Blackwood."
Tears filled her eyes, but she smiled—sad, brave, fleeting.
"Only if you do too, Colonel Graves."
---
Outside, the snow had begun to fall again—silent, soft, uncaring. Alek waited near the edge of the woods, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked up when Anya approached.
"Ready?"
She nodded once, casting one last glance at the cabin.
And then she turned away.
She didn't look back again.
---
Inside, Damian watched through the frost-covered window. Watched her disappear between the trees like a ghost swallowed by snow.
His fingers curled into fists.
She was gone.
But the war had just begun.