January 8, 2030 — Moscow, Russian Federation
Flashback
The television screen cast a dim glow across the sparse apartment, the image jittering with static before settling into the confident face of the Kremlin's press liaison. The woman's voice was crisp, sharp as winter glass.
"Tomorrow at 0900 Moscow Standard Time, President Viktor Malenkov will deliver a nationwide address from the Kremlin Media Annex. The topic is classified. But rest assured, the Russian people will find reassurance in the strength of leadership during these uncertain times."
The footage cut to a still of Malenkov—shoulders broad, fingers interlaced atop a carved oak desk. A statesman's portrait. A lie by design.
January sat in the worn leather chair, elbows on his knees, fingertips pressed together like the arms of a trap ready to spring. The curtains were drawn tight, not that anyone could see them up here—not from this far into the perimeter. He didn't blink as the broadcast repeated, just once, and then again, in all major European languages.
In the kitchen behind him, the soft mechanical click of a pistol being disassembled added a cadence to the silence.
February stood there, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, the soft sheen of oil catching the yellow lamplight. Her eyes, always scanning, now settled on him.
"You ready for tomorrow's showdown?" she asked.
January didn't turn. His eyes stayed locked on the screen even as it dimmed to black.
"Born ready," he said softly. Then, after a breath: "But it's not about readiness. It's about inevitability."
February snorted lightly, beginning to reassemble the handgun. Her movements were fast, fluid—muscle memory written in years of training. She was dressed like the journalist she'd be tomorrow: cream blouse, black slacks, flat shoes, hair tied back in a businesslike knot. But no amount of costume could hide what she really was: an apex predator in sheep's clothing.
"The broadcast is a trap," he said. "The Kremlin would push the lie. Spin the narrative. And Stroganov would be visible. Vulnerable."
February slid the magazine home with a click. "Which is why we're going."
January nodded. "Stroganov won't show up to the speech. Not in person. But he will be in the building."
February raised a brow. "And you're sure he has it?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he rose, walked toward the steel table in the corner, and opened a thick black folder. Inside: schematics of the Media Annex, guard rotations, ID badge mock-ups, camera blind zones, ventilation diagrams. Phase Two wasn't just an operation—it was a scalpel stroke through the Kremlin's throat.
Just before the sun rose, the team convened in a private garage beneath a shuttered textile mill two blocks from the annex. Snow blew outside in swirls of white and soot. Inside, engine fumes and old concrete mingled with the scent of grease and ozone.
Agent September sat in the corner, tapping away on a portable console. He was lean, forgettable, face hidden behind thick glasses and a mop of dark hair—camouflage for the ghost inside the machine. Fiber cables ran from his station to the nearby junction box. He was already inside Moscow's grid. Light flickered against his lenses as digital overlays danced across them.
"Power reroute secure," September said, without looking up. "One minute blackout window confirmed. No more than that, or they'll kick to internal generators."
"One minute is all I need," January replied.
From across the room, Agent June leaned against a reinforced van door, arms crossed over his chest. His black tactical vest was zipped halfway, revealing a tight thermal shirt underneath. His eyes were half-lidded, but the rhythm of his boot tapping on the concrete said otherwise. June never truly relaxed—only recharged like a panther in the trees.
"I'll be near the southern fire exit," he said. "Two shots on comms means trouble. Three means abort. Four means it's already too late."
"Understood," January said.
February adjusted the lapel pin on her press badge—a perfect replica of the international media pass used by allied journalists under UN clearance. "When's our in?"
"Doors open at 0600. We'll go in staggered. February first, then me. September and June will already be in place."
"And the extraction?" June asked.
January's voice turned colder. "Through the maintenance chute beneath the east gallery."
________________________________________________________
January sat alone again—this time on the rooftop, watching the cathedral towers in the distance catch. The dome of Saint Basil's glinted like the head of a sleeping beast. Moscow pulsed below him. A city thick with ghosts and old secrets.
He could still see Blackridge in his mind. Still smell the frost-burned metal. The screams. The silence after.
January's hand curled into a fist. His breath left him in visible coils.
This wasn't just about Phase Two. It wasn't just about truth. Or vengeance.
It was about history. The kind you bleed for. The kind written in the shadows long before it is ever spoken aloud.
Tomorrow would be a performance.
But tonight—tonight was the funeral march before the flood.
And in the heart of the Kremlin, beneath the flag and the frost, the last heartbeat of the old guard waited.
He would find Stroganov.
And he would open the past like a coffin.