January 9, 2030 — Moscow, Kremlin Media Annex, 0500 Hours
Snow fell like powdered ash across the courtyard as Agent January stepped from the black transport van, his journalist badge clipped beneath the lapel of a tailored winter coat. He walked with the quiet composure of a foreign correspondent, camera bag slung over one shoulder, the expression of polite disinterest on his face masking the strategic clarity beneath. By his side, Agent February trailed a breath behind, her eyes shaded by dark sunglasses, red lipstick immaculate, her journalist credential fluttering slightly in the breeze.
The Kremlin Media Annex loomed like a mausoleum of glass and steel, its inner sanctums fortified with biometric barriers and invisible firewalls. Russian FSB guards flanked the doors, their eyes flicking across the identities of the arriving press. Each bore rifles with biometric triggers and wore expressionless faceplates, masks of sanctioned brutality.
February stepped forward first, her accent flawless. "Anya Volkov. RT Europe. Accredited for the 0900 briefing."
The guard's scanner beeped green.
She leaned slightly forward, letting her gloved hand brush the soldier's wrist, a smile like sin tugging at her lips. "You must hate the cold. You know, if you ever find yourself in Spain, I have a cousin who makes drinks strong enough to cure frostbite."
The soldier's hand twitched involuntarily at her touch. Then he nodded, dazed.
January followed, flashing his badge: "Eric Lansing. Reuters International."
His name was in the forged database, credentials seeded two months in advance by September through a worm buried in a routine FSB maintenance update.
They passed through security scanners laced with low-level EM pulse detectors and spectrometric analyzers. Nothing hidden made it through. Which is why everything they needed wasn't hidden—it was transformed. February's lipstick was a knock-out aerosol. January's belt buckle housed a ceramic blade. Every button on his coat doubled as a micro-trigger or jammer.
They moved deeper into the annex.
________________________________________________________________
0700 Hours
Inside the editorial bullpen, February performed her part with grace and glittering menace. She mingled with reporters, drawing eyes and attention, cultivating suspicion—but the right kind of suspicion. She whispered spicy rumors about NATO intercepts, hinted at a scandal involving French intelligence, baited hooks in every language. It was all noise. A screen of perfume and misdirection.
Meanwhile, January ghosted through restricted zones on a rotating media pass, accessing security stairwells and utility shafts using a universal keycard etched with the fingerprints of a low-level FSB tech who no longer existed.
In the heart of the annex, September was already inside.
Hidden in the server nest beneath the broadcast relay tower, September's hands moved across his deck in frenzied calm. Firewalls fell before him like paper dominoes. Internal surveillance feeds looped back on themselves. Building schematics scrolled like DNA chains across his retinal display.
"Phase Two is green," he whispered into the comm. "Diversion protocol armed. Media feeds set to crash at 0903."
"Copy that," January murmured. His voice was the wind through a scalpel.
________________________________________________________________
0830 Hours
Mikhail Stroganov arrived via armored elevator, flanked by two bodyguards and an aide. Dressed in ceremonial uniform, epaulettes glinting, he exuded control. The director of death dressed for an audience.
He never noticed February.
But she noticed him.
Their timing was immaculate. A whisper from an 'accidental' collision with the aide planted a fake folder. Stroganov received a false intel packet suggesting a foreign journalist had uncovered FSB corruption—specifically his. The trap was set.
At precisely 0847, Stroganov departed his secure chamber and descended to the underground tunnel where a hidden interview room had been prepped in case of "press emergencies."
There, the walls were lined with old bricks and power conduits. And there, waiting in the dark, was January.
Mikhail Stroganov stepped into the corridor, pistol raised, jaw clenched. He had followed the bait perfectly—February's performance upstairs, coupled with the flickering hacked feeds, had done their job. He believed he was chasing a lone infiltrator.
But the real trap was already set.
A single spotlight clicked on above him.
And out of the darkness, Agent January stepped into view.
No weapons in hand. Just the long black coat, gloves tight, and that unsettling calm in his eyes.
"Hello, General," January said. His voice was silk over steel.
Stroganov didn't hesitate—he opened fire.
January moved, already predicting the vector. The first shot shattered the concrete where his head had been. He rolled to the side, snatched a metal pipe from the ground, and came up low, striking Stroganov's wrist. The gun clattered to the floor.
"You're faster than I expected," the general grunted, stepping back and assuming a close-combat stance learned from decades of Spetsnaz brutality.
"I tend to disappoint the dying," January replied.
They collided.
Stroganov threw a brutal elbow, aiming to crush January's temple. January weaved under it, countering with a precise jab to the throat—not hard enough to crush, just enough to make the old war dog stumble.
The general caught himself, grabbed a metal chain from the wall, and swung it like a whip. January ducked once. Twice. The third strike wrapped around his arm, tearing into fabric and flesh. Stroganov yanked.
January was pulled forward—only to plant both feet on the wall and launch himself into a flying knee. It struck Stroganov's sternum with a crack. The chain snapped loose. Both men staggered.
"You're not just a killer," Stroganov snarled.
January circled him like a shadow coming unglued.
"I'm what your Black List made," he said. "Now I'm what ends it."
Stroganov roared and charged.
He tackled January through a steel door. They tumbled into a small armory chamber, crashing through a rack of riot shields. Fists flew—elbows, knees, forearms. Each blow from Stroganov was meant to break bone. Each counter from January was surgical—targeting ligaments, nerves, and psychology.
Midway through a grapple, January whispered, "Your left shoulder's damaged. Old injury. Chechnya?"
Stroganov's eyes flared. He threw a wild haymaker. January ducked it and drove his palm into the shoulder socket—dislocating it with a sickening pop.
"You read my file," Stroganov growled, resetting the joint with a shout of pain.
"No. I read your posture."
Stroganov lunged again, grabbed January's neck, and slammed him into a weapons locker. The metal dented from the force. He began choking him, face red, spittle flying.
"I was burying enemies when you were still learning how to shave, boy," he hissed.
January's lips curled into a smile, even as the world dimmed around the edges. "And I've been digging up your kind since."
He reached behind his back—and jammed a spike-blade from his wrist gauntlet into Stroganov's kidney.
The general howled. Staggered.
January gasped in air, spun, and delivered a flurry of calculated strikes—solar plexus, knee, jaw. Stroganov crumbled, but not fully. He came up with a hidden boot knife and slashed.
Blood bloomed across January's side.
The assassin didn't flinch.
Instead, he dropped low and snapped Stroganov's knee sideways with a brutal kick. The general hit the floor, one leg twisted beneath him.
Still, he tried to rise.
January stood over him now, a blood-stained silhouette against the flashing red of an alarm light overhead. His voice dropped into something chillingly clinical.
"You had secrets. Orders. A directive. Where is it?"
Stroganov spat blood. "I'll die before I talk."
January knelt beside him. Close. Whispering.
"You already did."
He reached into Stroganov's uniform, bypassed the obvious hiding spots, and retrieved what he had come for—a micro-implant, surgically embedded beneath the general's left collarbone. January snapped it free with a sterile extraction tool.
Stroganov gasped once. "You knew it would be there..."
"I knew you'd protect it like your own heart," January said.
And then he drove the blade straight into Stroganov's chest—piercing between the ribs, silencing the general's last defiance.
January stood slowly, the tunnel bathed now in sirens and footsteps echoing in the distance.
In his ear, two quick shots echoed from June over comms.
Trouble.
________________________________________________________________
Upstairs, precisely at 0903, the screens went black.
Then came the masked woman. February.
Projected across the media walls, she stood in a void with a single teardrop painted beneath her left eye.
"You've been lied to," she said.
September broadcast the Blackridge footage. Security scrambled. February slipped her mask and walked calmly into the chaos, reporters screaming, guards roaring.
Someone shouted: "She's here!"
The spell broke.
February vanished into the crowd.
________________________________________________________________
June stood by the southern stairwell, hearing the call through his comm.
Two shots.
Trouble.
He turned, cracked his knuckles, and walked into a trio of guards.
The first lunged. June sidestepped, redirected his momentum, and shattered the man's elbow with a palm strike. The second reached for a sidearm.
Too slow.
June snapped his wrist sideways, forced the gun back into its owner's face, then kicked him into a wall.
The third ran.
June didn't chase.
Instead, he raised his hand.
Three shots.
Abort.
________________________________________________________________
January emerged from the tunnel just as alarms screamed through the compound.
Stroganov's blood clung to his knuckles.
"Exit Point Two," he called into comms.
Through the lobby, guards clashed with reporters. February had vanished into a different wing.
He reached the east gallery. Fire poured from a corridor behind him. He ducked under a hail of stun rounds.
Then a blast door began to close.
A hand reached through the last second.
February.
She kicked the locking arm and rolled through.
"Miss me?" she said, breathing hard.
January didn't answer.
He grabbed her hand. They ran.
And in his coat pocket, the key to Red Koschei burned with new consequence.