A sharp breeze slithered through the pine grove, bending the spindly branches toward the moon’s pale gaze. Down the trembling path, a woman strode with purpose, her black boots silent against the moist forest floor. She carried two sleek, modern bags, their minimalist design punctuated by a single red tag that would mean nothing to most, but to her, it meant everything. Zara, twenty-nine, with raven hair matted by rain and determination etched into her pale features, had ventured into the mountains before first light and remained a shadow among the trees.

“You’re late,” a man’s voice fractured the stillness.

Zara stopped abruptly, her heart thudding. Beside a gnarled oak on the ridge, Viktor emerged from the dark—a silhouette of lean, scruffy menace. His hood was drawn low, though his piercing gray eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, seemed to absorb everything about her in an instant: the bags she carried, her trembling hand, her defiant chin.

“I never promised punctuality,” Zara replied coolly, her voice devoid of patience yet intriguingly laced with something unspoken.

Viktor smirked, his scarred lips twisting at the corners. “Don’t you ever tire of trying to bluff me, Zayka?” His Russian accent hardened the syllables, turning her code name into a private little knife between them.

Zara flinched—barely. She marched closer, shoving one of the bags into his chest, the movement sharp and biting. “Here’s your prize,” she hissed. “Try not to get yourself killed using it.”

Viktor caught the bag with ease, as if accustomed to her ferocity. “And the second one?” he asked, motioning toward the other bag, its zipper glinting faintly in the moonlight.

“Insurance,” she replied. Her tone was sharp but carried an unmistakable gravity, as if the words themselves were braced against a storm gathering between them.

The moment lingered—an unspoken battle of wills. Viktor studied her, his weathered face cast in shadows, his silence the kind that burrowed beneath the skin.

“You always think you have more power than you do, Zara,” he said finally, his voice softer now, almost a murmur. “Out here, beneath these trees, against the men we fight, power is just illusion.”

“And trust is just a trap,” she countered sharply, though her voice faltered as a sudden gust of wind whipped her hair into her eyes. Her breath quickened—was it anger or … something more? “Do you think I don’t know where your loyalties truly lie, Viktor? With whichever side suits you best. With yourself.”

The accusation twisted in the air, but Viktor laughed—the low, bitter laugh of a man too broken to deny the truth. “I didn’t come here to defend my character to a spy who lies better than she breathes,” he said. “I came for what’s in the bag.” He shifted the one she’d given him, its weight purposeful in his hand. “And to keep you alive.”

Zara blinked, her composure fracturing just enough to let a sliver of something vulnerable show. “I don’t need your protection.”

“No,” Viktor replied, stepping closer. Close enough for the scent of pine needles and wet earth to blend with the quiet heat radiating between them. “But you’ve always wanted it. Isn’t that why you keep meeting me on these mountains?”

His words struck like lightning, breaking open old wounds she had buried beneath layers of calculated distance. She swallowed hard, feeling her control slipping into the chasm he’d so recklessly carved.

Zara made to turn—to retreat before he saw more than she intended—but Viktor reached out, his gloved hand catching her wrist. For once, his touch wasn’t mercenary, wasn’t an iron grip meant to control or punish. It was steady—warm, almost impossibly so.

“Zayka,” he murmured, his voice a whisper now, almost swallowed by the strengthening wind. “If you leave tonight, you may not make it back. The others—they’re coming. For both of us.”

She hesitated, her pulse quickening. “Then why didn’t you just take the bag and run?”

His crooked smile returned, though this time, it carried an edge of sorrow. “Because some things are worth staying for.”

The moment collapsed as Zara wrenched her hand free. “Don’t romanticize this,” she said sharply, though her breaths were uneven, her mask cracking. “We’re nothing but pawns, Viktor. We’re both dead already, whether it’s in days or decades. And dead people don’t get to have promises.”

But he didn’t answer. His silence was louder than her protest. He disappeared into the woods without another word, the bag slung over his shoulder, his shadow melting into the black.

Zara remained rooted on the ridge, blood pounding in her ears. She threw the second bag to the ground and watched a single jolt of lightning illuminate its secret contents. For a fleeting moment, she wondered: What if she followed him? What if she didn’t?

The storm swallowed the thought whole, leaving the forest to whisper its unanswered question to the endless night.