In an old bar on the outskirts of Russia's capital, Moscow,
a man who looked weak and lost sat alone, drinking vodka.
Two young men approached him, both in the prime of their youth—
most likely members of one of Moscow's street gangs.
One of them placed his hand on the man's shoulder and said:
"Hey, you homeless trash. Get out of this bar, or I'll break this bottle over your head."
He didn't finish his sentence.
The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, his shoulder dislocated.
The fight erupted inside the bar.
Chairs flew in every direction.
People screamed.
Anda few minutes later,
the so-called homeless man walked out of the bar, heading toward his home,
leaving behind more than eight men in critical condition.
He enters his old home and sits down, drinking alcohol,
paying no attention to his wounds.
His eyes linger on a photograph—
a beautiful woman holding a small girl in her arms.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The doorbell rings.
Roman is surprised—no one ever visits him.
He gets up to open the door…
and freezes in shock.
A disfigured woman stands before him,
holding a burned child in her arms.
She screams:
"You are the reason. You did this."
Roman begins to scream—
but suddenly wakes up on the couch.
Another dream.
Just like the ones that haunt him every single day.
He stands up and exhales deeply.
A faint tear slips from his eye,
but dries before it reaches his cheek.
He leaves the house and heads to his job,
working in a warehouse unloading goods.
After a long day of labor,
he goes to a bar—his routine.
From a dark alley, a voice calls out to him.
It uses a name he once carried…
"The Black Wolf."
Roman turns toward the sound
and finds one of his old friends—Dmitri.
Dmitri says:
"Roman… the commander of the war fleet is in a desperate state."
Roman looks at him and replies coldly:
"Enough. Why are you here?"
Dmitri answers with a single word:
"Viktor Moris."
Time stops for a moment around Roman.
Memories surge through him.
He straightens his posture.
His voice changes.
Roman says:
"Dmitri… gather the team.
There is a debt I must pay."
Dmitri smiles and replies:
"The commander has returned."Roman was not a soldier…
he was a nightmare rising from the sea.
A commander in the Russian Naval Special Forces,
leading a unit that could not be measured—
five men,
each one more dangerous than the other.
The Team
Alexei
A sniper.
He never fired twice.
He used to say:
"A bullet that leaves the barrel must find its soul."
Dmitri
Explosives expert.
He smiled at the sound of detonations.
Fire did not scare him—
fire feared him.
Mikhail
Silent strength.
He entered first and left last.
Walls did not stop him.
Igor
The mind of the team.
He saw the war before it began.
When he said "withdraw"… everyone withdrew.
And the commander—
Roman.
The fifth.
The one who never needed to raise his voice to be heard.
Despite the hell he lived in,
he had one light left:
his wife and his daughter.
He was counting the days.
One final mission…
then London—
the city of fog,
a life without blood.
But evil was waiting.
Halfway through the mission,
the sky turned to fire.
A house burned.
Gunfire everywhere.
A broken distress call.
The team moved in fast.
Flames devoured everything.
Roman fired,
changed his magazine,
and advanced…
Then the truth stopped time.
His wife.
His daughter.
Bodies without voices,
memories burning with them.
In that moment,
something inside him died.
Because this was not a mistake.
Not an accident.
It was planned.
The name struck like a curse:
Viktor Moris.
A man without a face—
only ideas.
The mastermind behind the largest and most dangerous terrorist organization of the modern era.
Viktor did not kill for chaos—
he killed to watch men break.
He built empires from ashes
and carved messages into flesh.
He once said:
"War is not bullets… war is a decision."
That night,
Commander Roman disappeared.
And something else was bo
rn—
something without law,
without mercy.
The Black Wolf
rose from hell…
and became hell itself.The information surfaced after months of silence.
The name Viktor Moris appeared again—
this time in Afghanistan.
A brutal attack on a remote area.
A village erased from the map.
Only one signature left behind:
ashes.
Roman knew immediately—
this was not a show of force.
It was an invitation.
He gathered the team once more.
There were no long speeches.
One look was enough.
Roman said:
"This time, we don't strike with force…
we strike with intelligence."
The plan was smart,
built on patience and deception.
An attack from one direction…
and an even stronger defense from another.
Alexei took position at long range,
his eye missing nothing.
Dmitri planted the ground silently,
every step calculated.
Mikhail moved through the shadows,
like a ghost unseen.
Igor watched it all,
shaping the battle before it began.
And the Black Wolf…
waited for the moment.
The assault began.
Fire.
Explosions.
The sky split open.
Viktor's men fought fiercely,
as if they no longer feared death.
The defense was stronger than expected.
The area turned into open hell—
blood,
dust,
and screams.
Despite everything…
Roman got close.
Very close.
But Viktor…
was not a man who fell easily.
Before the final strike,
he withdrew.
Leaving behind his men's bodies
and a destroyed battlefield.
He escaped.
Roman stood in the middle of the devastation,
his breathing heavy,
his eyes steady.
He said in a cold calm:
"The war is far from over."
And somewhere far away,
Viktor
was smiling…
because he knew one thing:
The Black Wolf
had returned to hunt.The counterattack did not come suddenly…
it came with precision.
The location was Khundar Valley,
a rugged mountainous region in northern Afghanistan—
towering rocks,
narrow passes,
where silence itself was more dangerous than bullets.
The team was returning after a reconnaissance mission.
Night was slowly falling,
the wind slicing through the sand like knives.
Alexei was positioned on a rocky high ground,
his sniper scope locked in,
watching the entire valley.
He spoke into the comms:
"This place is too quiet."
He didn't finish the sentence.
The first strike came from above.
An RPG slammed into the front of the convoy.
The explosion shook the mountains.
Gunfire poured down like rain—
from the right,
from the left,
and from above.
An ambush.
Viktor's men were spread with discipline,
dark uniforms,
fast movements.
These were not random militias—
they were professionals.
Roman shouted:
"Positions! Cover each other!"
Dmitri answered with a counter-blast,
turning the ground into fire.
Mikhail charged forward,
breaking the enemy line with brute force,
his weapon never silent.
Igor called out coordinates through the chaos:
"Watch out—second sniper on the western ridge!"
Alexei shifted his position,
breathed deeply,
and squeezed the trigger.
Target down.
A brief smile crossed his face…
Then the shot came.
A suppressed crack.
A precise round.
Alexei staggered back—
then fell.
Roman saw him drop from the rocks.
His heart moved faster than his mind.
He ran through the fire,
bullets tearing past his head,
and dragged Alexei behind cover.
There was too much blood.
Far too much.
Alexei opened his eyes with effort,
a faint smile on his lips,
and whispered:
"Wolf…
finish the hunt."
Roman pressed his hands against the wound,
shouting into the radio:
"Smoke! Now!"
A curtain of smoke swallowed the valley.
A forced withdrawal.
Alexei stopped breathing
in his commander's arms.
The team pulled out after a brutal fight—
leaving bodies behind,
and carrying a loss that could never be replaced.
Hours later,
Roman stood alone above the same valley.
The night was still.
The blood was still on his hands.
He spoke quietly,
but with iron certainty:
"Viktor…
I swear,
every breath you've taken…
you will pay fo
r it."
From that night on,
the war changed.
There were no more operations.
No more orders.
Only the hunt.The pursuit did not last for years…
it lasted only months,
but they were enough to break men.
Viktor Moris did not run blindly.
He moved fast—
from country to country,
changing names,
leaving behind a burning world.
Roman chose not only to chase him…
but to destroy everything Viktor lived by.
In just a few months:
An arms trafficking network in the Balkans was burned to the ground.
Secret ports used for human trafficking were sunk into the sea.
Drug production facilities in South America were erased from the map.
Viktor felt the pressure.
His men began to die.
His money vanished.
His influence collapsed.
So he stopped running…
and turned it into open war.
His final escape led to Australia—
vast deserts,
abandoned industrial zones,
the perfect land for a battle without laws.
The Final War
The confrontation began at night.
Viktor brought everything he had:
international mercenaries,
snipers,
heavy weapons,
and armed drones.
Roman entered with only three men.
The rest had died along the way.
Mikhail's Death
Mikhail was at the front.
Trapped between steel warehouses.
His ammunition ran out.
He refused to retreat.
He fired his last round,
then charged with his knife.
He fell standing.
Dmitri's Death
Dmitri covered the withdrawal.
A bag of explosives on his back.
He looked at Roman and smiled:
"Tell them… I never regretted it."
He pressed the trigger.
The explosion erased the place—
and him with it.
Igor's Death
Igor was hit in the abdomen.
Still, he kept giving coordinates.
His voice breaking, he said:
"Viktor… eastern building…
don't let him escape."
Then his voice went silent.
Roman was alone.
Blood.
Dust.
Distant gunfire.
The Confrontation
He found Viktor inside an abandoned facility.
Waiting.
Viktor smiled tiredly and said:
"I lost everything…
and so did you."
Roman didn't answer.
The attack was close.
Brutal.
Silent.
They fought hand to hand.
Bones cracked.
Blood spilled.
Viktor tried to fire—
Roman broke his arm.
He slammed him to the ground.
Sat on his chest.
Viktor tried to speak…
but there was no time for words.
Roman grabbed his head,
and all the rage poured out at once.
He tore Viktor Moris's head off with his bare hands.
It wasn't a clean revenge.
It was dirty.
And real.
Aftermath
Roman stood in the silence.
No team remained.
No war.
No purpose.
The enemy was dead—
but everything else died with him.
The Black Wolf won…
but he had no pack left.On a quiet night,
far from war,
far from blood…
Roman slept without a weapon beside him.
For the first time in years.
In the dream,
there was no fire, no screaming.
She was there.
His wife,
just as he remembered her—
a calm face,
a warm gaze.
Beside her stood his daughter,
holding her hand and smiling.
Roman tried to speak…
but no words came out.
His wife stepped closer,
placed her hand on his face, and said softly:
"I have forgiven you."
His daughter said:
"Dad… we knew you were trying."
In that moment,
he felt something strange—
a weight that had lived in his chest for years
simply disappeared.
No guilt.
No blame.
No hell.
Roman woke up,
his eyes wet with tears,
but his heart felt light.
Years passed.
Roman now lives in the United States,
in a small, quiet house,
far away from everything.
He lives alone,
but no longer feels lonely.
On an ordinary morning,
he walks down the street.
Suddenly…
he stops.
He sees a woman.
She looks so much like her.
The same features…
the same eyes.
Their gazes meet.
She smiles and says:
"Good morning."
He answers with a genuine smile:
"Good morning."
They talk for a moment…
they laugh.
There is a strange warmth between them.
Roman feels happiness—
a simple, clean joy.
And she feels it too…
something that feels like safety.
As he walks away,
he looks up at the sky and whispers:
"At last… I know how to live."
And the Black Wolf,
who rose from hell,
finally found
peace.
The End.