Project Babylon – Prologue 2

Wyatt and the five men chosen for the job slipped into the ruins without a word, the roar of battle fading behind them. They moved through the shattered remains of the city’s infrastructure, threading their way through a maintenance path—an open wound in the earth, torn apart by shelling and neglect. Sunlight sliced through jagged cracks in the ceiling, casting long, shifting shadows against the rubble-strewn floor. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by their careful steps.

Wyatt kept his rifle raised, senses razor-sharp. Every nerve in his body thrummed with tension, alert for movement. Then he heard it.

A sound he knew too well.

Not just the staccato bursts of Western rifles—those were expected. Not just the whir of German drones or the sharp crack of black-market carbines.

No.

This was something else.

The unmistakable, bone-rattling hammering of AK-variant rifles. And beneath it… a sound that set his teeth on edge.

The deep, guttural growl of Russian tank engines.

He stopped dead, heart hammering. If the Russians were here—really here—then everything was about to change.

His stomach clenched.

Something was wrong.

He turned sharply—only to find himself alone.

The five men were gone. No sound, no signal, just… gone. Like ghosts vanishing into the dust.

Figures. They’d been paid upfront. Mercenaries weren’t the loyal kind.

But Wyatt still had a job to do. And he wasn’t about to run.

The path twisted ahead, slanting upward. Patches of golden light pooled on the cracked concrete, illuminating jagged metal beams and shattered pipes. Wyatt moved quickly, staying close to the walls, every instinct screaming at him to stay alert.

Then he saw it.

A rusted ladder, leading up.

The battle wasn’t far—but it was far enough. And if the hospital was still standing, then this was his best chance to reach it unseen.

He exhaled, steadying his grip on his rifle, then climbed.

Emerging into a narrow back alley, he crouched low, scanning his surroundings. The city—something Turkic, though he’d never cared to learn the name—spread out before him in broken silence. He never learned the names. He never stayed long enough for it to matter.

Here, away from the immediate fighting, the world felt still. Muted. As if the city itself was holding its breath.

But beyond the fractured walls and abandoned market stalls, war raged on. Gunfire rattled through the streets. The distant whump of grenades sent tremors through the ground beneath his boots.

Wyatt moved fast, threading through the maze of rubble, skirting burned-out vehicles and collapsed buildings. Every turn was calculated, each movement deliberate, keeping him away from the thick of the fighting. He pieced together the city’s layout in his mind, mapping out where the hospital had to be.

Then—

A chain of explosions ripped through the air.

The ground shuddered beneath him. A deep, thunderous crash followed—the unmistakable sound of a building collapsing in on itself.

Marshal was making his move.

Wyatt didn’t need to see it. He knew. The old man was bringing the walls down. Buying time.

Which meant Wyatt was on the clock.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed forward, picking up speed. Either Marshal and his team would die in the wreckage, or they’d break through.

Either way, in the end, Wyatt would be alone.

As he ran, his mind turned over the pieces, fitting them together with grim clarity. The warlords, the insurgents—they’d been pushing harder, with coordination far beyond their usual chaos. Too organized. Too precise.

The Russians weren’t just arming them.

They were directing them.

But why? Why so boldly? Why such an aggressive push? It seemed reckless—until it didn’t.

Then it clicked.

Wyatt stopped mid-stride. His breath caught in his throat. The truth hit like ice water down his spine.

He knew who was behind this.

Three breaths.

That was all he allowed himself.

One. To acknowledge the truth.

Two. To crush the instinct to turn and run.

Three. To move.

Then he was running, faster than before, rifle tight in his grip, boots hammering against the broken ground.

He had to reach the hospital.

Now.