The air in the Urals is razor-thin and mean. Snow crunches under boots that aren't made for grace. The blacksite looms like a corpse no one buried properly—half-swallowed by frost, all sharp metal and rusted legacy. It doesn't show on any map. It doesn't have to. Men like Sokolov build places like this to be forgotten until the moment they aren't.
Wan's voice crackles over comms. He's watching from the ridgeline. "Still running auxiliary. Low heat signature. Someone was home."
Fleory stands beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of her shearling coat as if she's about to order coffee, not to infiltrate a buried intelligence nest. "Why do I feel like we're walking into a Bond villain's therapy retreat?"
"Because we are," James mutters beside her, eyes never leaving the scope of his rifle. "Except this Bond shoots kneecaps and doesn't ask for names."
