The sun had already begun its descent behind the glass skeletons of Moscow's skyline, painting long orange streaks across the icy streets. Noon light flickered through a dense overcast sky, casting the city in a bleached, surreal hue. But inside the van, reality was blood-red warning lights, the hiss of metal under strain, and the relentless thrum of pursuit.
The first bullet hit the van's rear windshield with a crack that sounded like a hammer splitting bone. The second ripped through the tailgate, embedding itself in the spare tire.
Agent September hunched over the digital map interface bolted to the wall of the van's mobile command center, sweat trailing down his temple as he scanned for escape routes. His voice was curt, razor-edged with urgency.
"There's an underground metro access three blocks south. If we take the side street at Novokuznetskaya, we can—"
Another impact. The vehicle jolted hard. Tires screeched behind them.
"—we can lose them inside the subway grid if we're fast."
June didn't hesitate. His eyes flashed as his neural interface pulsed along his spine. He yanked the wheel right and took a blinding turn, the van's suspension groaning beneath the force.
"Brace!" he shouted.
From behind, a pursuing black sedan mounted the curb, and a figure leaned out the window—rocket launcher in hand.
"Incoming!" February shouted.
The rocket screamed past them, missing the van by inches.
It struck a city sedan up ahead. The explosion vaporized the vehicle into a ball of glass and flame, sending shrapnel spiraling through the air. The concussive blast hit the van broadside, forcing it to fishtail. Metal shrieked as the vehicle collided with a light pole. The windshield spider-webbed.
Smoke. Coughing. Disoriented shouts.
"Move! Move!" January barked, throwing open the van's side door.
The four of them poured out into the street.
September reached into his coat pocket, thumbed a recessed button on a handheld trigger, and tossed it into the van.
A second later, the entire vehicle erupted into a fireball, sending one of the trailing cars into a tumble.
No time to celebrate. Sirens wailed. Shadows moved.
They sprinted for the stairwell leading into the metro station, boots slamming against frozen concrete, ears ringing from the blast.
Underground.
The darkness below swallowed them in seconds. Harsh white lights flickered in the tunnels, buzzing intermittently as if the station itself was undecided about continuing to function. The air stank of metal, ozone, and dust.
They reached the platform.
"Split at the junction. September, take the upper rail corridor. June, with me," January ordered. "February, shadow the far stairwell—overwatch."
The team broke off in a practiced, seamless rhythm.
But then, everything froze.
A distant crash of metal.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the tunnel.
From the northern corridor, a figure emerged.
A mountain of a man—six-foot-two at least—clad in reinforced tactical armor, his face obscured by a smooth silver mask that caught the fluorescent lighting like a mirror. His breathing was loud, his body was buffed. A red insignia gleamed from his shoulder:
ЧК - Red Koschei.
He didn't speak. Instead, he reached to the side, gripped a bench anchored to the wall—and ripped it free with an effortless motion. Steel screamed in protest.
February gasped. "That strength…"
He hurled the bench with terrifying force.
It slammed into the far wall, narrowly missing January and showering sparks in every direction.
The Red Koschei prototype raised a high-caliber automatic rifle from his back and opened fire.
Rounds thundered against the pillars, shattering tile and metal. The echo in the station was deafening.
"Split up!" January yelled.
February dove into the stairwell, gun drawn.
June flipped over a handrail, neural reflexes dancing through his muscles.
September ducked into the maintenance access door.
January moved with fluid and determination, a blur between bursts of gunfire, vanishing down the central tracks.
The sound of the Red Koschei's weapon chased them through the dark.
The hunt had begun.
The Red Koschei was no myth. It had a face now.
And it wanted them dead.