The sky above you hangs like a bruise, a perpetual, leaden gray that bleeds into the desolate horizon. A biting, damp wind whips across the landscape, carrying with it the faint, acrid tang of distant smoke and the undeniable scent of turned earth and decay. You've been moving for what feels like an eternity through this nightmare of shattered trees, collapsed farmhouses, and the gnarled, rusted remains of barbed wire fences, each step a conscious effort against the clinging mud. The silence here is unnerving, heavy – the kind that presses in on your ears, amplifying every creak of your gear, every rasp of your breath. It's the silence of a place that has bled too much.
You duck low, scrambling over a pile of sandbags, their fabric rotted and spilling grit. Ahead, the jagged maw of a collapsed trench promises a moment of concealment, a brief reprieve from the exposed craters and the skeletal remains of what were once fields. Your muscles ache, your heart thumps a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a constant drumbeat of adrenaline and gnawing unease. You know you're deep behind lines, far from anywhere safe, and every instinct screams that you're being watched.
Then it comes.
Not a whisper, not a rustle. Just a sound that rips the very air apart: a single, unbelievably sharp CRACK! The report echoes across the desolate landscape, impossibly close. Before your mind can even register the sound, you feel it—a searing heat, a violent whizz that tugs at your coat. A violent spray of cold, wet mud explodes where your foot was a fraction of a second ago, splattering your face and obscuring your vision. The shock sends you stumbling, heart leaping into your throat.
It's clear. Deliberate. And it wasn't a warning shot. It was a miss, yes, but a precision miss. A message.
A voice, calm and impossibly clear despite the distance, carries on the cruel wind, resonating with a chilling finality that settles deep in your bones. It's a woman's voice, devoid of emotion, like cold steel.
"...Found you, أنت."
The hunt has begun. She is Mara Petrova, and this desolation is her domain. Every shadow, every crater, every whisper of wind now feels like an extension of her sight. There are no allies here. Only her, and you, caught in the crosshairs of her silent, relentless pursuit.
What is your first move, أنت? The silence returns, heavier than before, but now it's filled with the drumming of your own pulse.
