Project Babylon – Prologue 8

Clean air. High up in the mountains, crisp and untouched—a world away from the chaos below. Wyatt scanned the area, rifle raised, sweeping for signs of movement. Nothing. The rendezvous point looked deserted. It had once been a lapis lazuli mine, too small for commercial exploitation but large enough that the locals knew of it. Forgotten, quiet, and discreet—the perfect meeting place.

The woman didn’t wait for an all-clear. She didn’t even flinch. She walked forward, the baby strapped to her chest, and sat on a crate left abandoned. Wyatt let his instincts read the surroundings: no threats, no tension. His body knew before his mind did. He lowered his weapon, clicked the safety on, and sank down to sit—barely registering the cold surface beneath him. And then, without warning, his body gave out. Not a dramatic collapse, no gasps or sobbing—just uncontrollable shaking.

Deep, relentless tremors shook him. His hands clenched together as if gripping something solid could prevent them from betraying him. A quiet rustle drew his gaze upward. The woman was watching him from beneath her hood, her deep amber eyes reflecting the last traces of daylight.

“Not much experience walking the forgotten paths?” she asked, too casually for everything that had happened.

Wyatt exhaled, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. “I have experience,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “But—fuck. What the hell was that?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached into a pocket and pulled out baby food. Wyatt stared—how long had they been running? He hadn’t even noticed. Down the barren mountain, the fighting was ending; the invaders had won. Now, civilians were beginning to emerge—small figures moving through the wreckage. The distant hum of voices grew. Even from here, Wyatt could see what remained of the hospital—or rather, what didn’t remain. It had been leveled. Thoroughly erased. His body tensed as he recalled the thing—how the bullets vanished into its darkness. His hands began shaking again. He felt eyes on him.

Turning, he found the woman studying him. Without a word, she reached into another pocket and produced a flask, tossing it toward him. He caught it instinctively, uncapped it, and took a cautious sniff. Spirits. Strong.

“Drink it,” she said, feeding the baby with one hand, utterly at ease. “It’ll help with the nerves. Helped me the first time.”

Wyatt drank. The burn hit immediately, but it was grounding. He swallowed again, more slowly this time. The woman nodded, satisfied. They fell into silence. For the first time since everything began, they were safe—no one would come looking for them here, and no one would care. And for the first time, Wyatt allowed himself to think. His mission was done. All he had to do now was wait for whoever had hired them—him—to come collect the package.

His mind wandered. The money was substantial—more than he’d ever been paid before. He could take some time off—maybe relax on the Mediterranean coast, or somewhere even further afield. Maybe… His gaze flicked to the woman, to the way she cradled the child beneath her dark gear and black hood. She looked—maternal. Maybe…

No.

He shut the thought down before it could fully form. That wasn’t for him. The woman must have sensed his lingering stare because she turned, meeting his gaze.

“You’ve done a service you can’t possibly understand,” she said, pure honesty in her voice.

Wyatt hesitated. “I… hope so?” He exhaled, his tone flat. “I really don’t care.”

She smiled faintly. “You have. And since I know my superiors, they won’t give you thanks openly. That makes it my responsibility.” She nodded. “Thank you.” Wyatt had no response.

“This little girl is special,” she continued softly, with a hint of reverence. “Extremely so. Invaluable.” A flicker of emotion crossed her face—pride, joy, something deeper.

“And the fact that I have been chosen to raise and guide her…” she whispered almost to herself. Wyatt’s fingers tightened around the flask.

Chosen?

The mother had died in the hospital. He was sure of it. So, this woman had been appointed—just like that? A cold feeling settled in his chest. Who exactly had he been working for? He didn’t want to think about it. Nor did he want to think about the creature either.

A sound cut through his thoughts—a transport. High-tech, silent. It approached smoothly, barely kicking up dust. Both of them stood. Wyatt took in its details—sleek, unmarked, camouflaged to perfection. Professional. They clearly didn’t want to linger.

Heavily armed figures disembarked, their movements crisp and practiced. They immediately surrounded the woman. Wyatt could feel their awe radiating from them. One of them, less armed but equally armored, broke from the group and approached him. With a nod and no wasted words, the man said, “Thanks,” as he pressed a payment chip into Wyatt’s palm. “You won’t have trouble accessing the funds.” And just like that, it was done. Wyatt pocketed the chip absently. He needed to talk to Marchall. He needed answers.

The woman turned toward the transport, stepping inside with the child. She didn’t look back. The doors sealed shut. And then—they were gone.

The transport vanished across the mountains, leaving Wyatt alone in the cold air. Befuddled. Confused. His fingers brushed the flask—he still had it. He frowned; he was supposed to give it back. Lifting it, he turned it over in his hands: silver, decorated with gold, intricate engravings. At the center—a disk, sun-like in design. Expensive. Too expensive. Wyatt blinked, staring. What the hell had he just been part of? The wind howled over the ridge, but down below, the city remained.

He exhaled, pocketed the flask, and started walking. He had to find Marchall. Now that the fighting was over, he might finally be able to walk the streets—especially since he knew who led the forces down there.

————————————————————————————————————————

Navigating a taken city wasn’t hard—especially if you were a merc of some notoriety and had seen it all before. Cities like these followed the same patterns after a siege: pockets of resistance still smoldering in the ruins, looters picking at what the fighting hadn’t already destroyed, and victorious forces consolidating power, securing key locations, and executing whichever unlucky bastards had ended up on the wrong side. The rest—the majority—were caught in the precarious in-between. Some armed, most afraid.

That wasn’t a problem for the victors. At least, not yet. Order would be established soon enough. What kind of order, though, wasn’t Wyatt’s concern. He planned to be far away before that happened.

For now, he moved through the chaos with practiced ease, blending into the shifting currents of refugees, scavengers, and silent ghosts who hadn’t yet accepted that the city was no longer theirs. His clothes were dusty, his face shadowed by grime and exhaustion, but he carried himself like someone who belonged—like someone who had always been part of the scenery, even if no one could quite remember seeing him before.

The air was thick with shouting, crying, and the occasional crack of a rifle. Somewhere, someone moaned in pain. Yet no one stopped.

His group had agreed to meet at a predetermined location once everything was said and done—a hidden bar, a Turkic speakeasy if you could call it that. Something discreet, out of the way. A place where they could blend in, count their spoils, and divide the take before disappearing into the night. Wyatt wasn’t going there. There was something more pressing to figure out.

If his instincts were right, then the man leading the Russian forces—the one who had orchestrated the push and seized the city—was someone he’d tangled with before. If that was the case, there was no way Marshall and the others had escaped in a frontal assault. Wyatt needed to find out what had happened to them. The answer, he suspected, lay in the administrative district—where the patrols were thickest, their routes forming a tightening net. That’s where decisions were being made. And that’s where he needed to go.

Adjusting the strap of his rifle, he kept his pace steady. He’d been in warzones long enough to know that walking with too much confidence could get you killed just as easily as looking afraid. The trick was to appear as though you had somewhere to be, but nowhere important. Still, he couldn’t avoid all eyes.

As he passed through the shifting throng of displaced souls, he noticed figures with radios and communication devices taking note of him—not overtly, not aggressively, but enough that he knew he had been marked. The only question was by whom. He’d have his answer soon.

Turning down an alley, he stepped over a shattered cart and the body of a man who’d either been too slow to surrender or too proud to kneel. A few meters away, a cluster of civilians huddled near a broken storefront, whispering in hushed tones. One of them—a woman with hollow eyes and a face streaked with soot—glanced at him; just a flicker of recognition before looking away. Wyatt ignored it. He had no interest in the city’s ghosts. What interested him were the shadows moving in his wake.

Even in the chaotic ebb and flow of the occupied city, one thing was obvious—not because he felt watched (that was a given), but because the people around him began to move. Not toward him, but away. It wasn’t panic—not yet—but instinct, herding behavior. He almost smiled. They weren’t just watching him; they were shepherding him. Which meant that whoever was waiting for him wouldn’t be waiting much longer.

He rounded another corner and came into view of the barricades sealing off the administrative district. Barbed wire, sandbags, and soldiers standing at attention formed a checkpoint that had sprung up like wild blooms after the rain—meticulously planned by professional engineers. And then he saw it: the trap snapping shut.

Wyatt stopped walking. His hand hovered near his rifle strap, but he didn’t move for the weapon—at least, not yet. Instead, he took a slow breath, scanning the street ahead.

Six men. No, more. Some in uniform, some in plain clothes, all positioned too neatly to be anything but deliberate.

A soldier leaned against a makeshift barricade, rifle across his chest, eyes locked on Wyatt. Behind him, another adjusted his grip on a sidearm. A third figure, clad in a long, dust-streaked coat, stood a little apart from the rest, hands clasped behind his back—watching. Waiting.

Wyatt exhaled through his nose, the tension thick in the air.

A quick assessment of his situation.

He could turn back, try to slip away—maybe fail, maybe succeed. But one certainty crystallized in his mind: they weren’t going to kill him. Not yet.

He was a mercenary—a tool, and you didn’t break tools without reason. Especially not when other tools, watching from the sidelines, might decide it wasn’t worth working with you anymore. Mercenaries could be greedy and stubborn at times, but they weren’t foolish. If word spread that these Russians killed freelancers without cause, it would be harder to hire skilled ones in the future. Wyatt let out a slow breath and relaxed his posture, choosing the path of least resistance. He walked forward. The soldiers nodded, almost relieved. They didn’t want to use force. Not yet, anyway.

Only one among them did not react—the man in the long, dust-streaked coat. He stood apart, letting the others do the talking, his presence an unsettling void in the group. Wyatt felt something off about him, something wrong. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

The one who seemed in charge—a sergeant judging by his insignia—studied Wyatt with sharp, assessing eyes. When he spoke, his Russian accent was thick, the syllables landing with deliberate weight. “You part of the mercenary unit?” he asked

Wyatt nodded. “Yes.”

The soldiers tensed at the confirmation. A ripple of hostility ran through the group. Only the sergeant and the man in the duster remained calm.

“I see,” the sergeant said. “Did your objective intersect with ours?”

“We were paid to retrieve a target and escort them to a rendezvous,” Wyatt replied with a shrug. “You were a surprise.” A low murmur rose among the soldiers, their anger buzzing beneath the surface like a disturbed hornet’s nest.

“Indeed,” the sergeant mused. “As were you.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Capable lot, I must say. Impressive, even. You made quite the mess.”

Wyatt filed that information away. The sergeant didn’t say “captured” or “killed.” That meant Marshall and the others weren’t dead. What are they playing at?

“I wasn’t with them,” Wyatt said evenly. “Distraction. I was sent around the fighting while they… stalled for time.” The sergeant exhaled through his nose, his expression tightening. A particular bitterness laced his next words.

“Indeed.” Whatever had happened, Marshall and the others must have put up one hell of a fight.

Before the conversation could continue, the man in the duster finally moved. He stepped forward, unhurried but deliberate, and for the first time, Wyatt got a proper look at him. Tall. Extremely tall. Broad-shouldered, built like a warhorse. At first glance, Wyatt thought the man’s head and face were wrapped in dark cloth—but then the realization settled in like ice through his veins. It wasn’t cloth. It was thick black hair. And beneath it, catching the dim light—silver eyes. The same unnatural, glinting silver as the creature that had intercepted them at the server farm.

Wyatt’s instincts screamed at him, but years of training and experience clamped down on his reaction before it could show. He kept his face neutral, his breathing steady. Stay calm. Don’t flinch. Don’t give anything away.

Because whatever this thing was—whatever it wanted—Wyatt was sure of one thing: it was watching him very, very closely.

“Sergeant, remain calm,” said the man in the duster. His voice was impossibly deep, resonating like the growl of a landslide. “They are tools of fortune. However much damage they managed to do, it isn’t their fault.”

The soldier in the duster—Volkov—spoke with a gravity that made the others shift uneasily. Some were Russians, others locals, but all of them looked suddenly small beneath his presence.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant answered, his earlier authority reduced to meek obedience.

“The Colonel wants to see him.” Volkov turned his full attention to Wyatt. “We both want to have a conversation with him.” His voice had a strange quality—deep, cavernous even, with a subtle, sleazy edge that Wyatt had heard before. Men like this—men who spoke like this—were never straightforward. They enjoyed twisting their words just as much as twisting arms.

“Yes, Brother Volkov,” the soldiers answered as one. Brother?

Wyatt noted the shift immediately. A moment ago, they had been tense, bristling with restrained violence. Now, at the mere mention of Volkov’s name, they were reduced to obedient children. Slowly, Wyatt let his hand drift—not to his gun, but toward the handle of one of his knives. Volkov smiled knowingly as he stepped closer, a slow, deliberate movement. Wyatt had seen smiles like that before—the kind that never meant anything good.

“My apologies, soldier of fortune,” Volkov said, placing a heavy arm around Wyatt’s shoulders. There was an eerie sincerity in his voice, like a man genuinely sorry for the inevitable pain he was about to inflict. Wyatt tested the weight on his shoulders. No escaping that grip. Any delusion of breaking free abandoned him now, he moved his
and away from the hilt of his knife. Volkov wasn’t just strong—he was impossibly strong.
“Come,” Volkov continued, still grinning. “The Colonel has a good opinion of you, and we wouldn’t want to make him wait.”
As they passed the barricade, Wyatt studied him in the dim lighting. Hairy was an understatement. His thick black mane swallowed most of his features, leaving only glimpses of skin—a network of scars crisscrossing what little he could see.
“Better you than me.” The quiet whisper came from one of the Russian soldiers as Wyatt passed. That startled him. Even they don’t want to be alone with him?
Beyond the barricade, the world was a study in organized chaos. Soldiers rushed past, burdened with crates and papers. Engineers hunched over equipment, making hasty repairs. Tents had sprung up, forming makeshift districts, each with its own rhythm of activity.
Wyatt barely had time to take it in before Volkov’s grip tightened, guiding him forward.
“Got to say, I’m impressed,” Volkov mused.
Wyatt realized the space around them was widening. Men moved out of their way, casting quick glances—not at him, but at Volkov. A cold sweat prickled at Wyatt’s brow.
“Not many take me on and survive,” Volkov continued, his voice light and amused.
Wyatt exhaled slowly. “Is that something to worry about?”
Volkov chuckled, a pleased rumble deep in his chest. “Indeed.” His grip tightened.
Wyatt clenched his jaw as the pressure bore down on his shoulders. Even through his gear, he could feel the force of it—felt the bruises already forming.
“You had unseen help,” Volkov admitted, tilting his head as though studying a particularly interesting specimen. “But your reaction speed, your steadfastness, your will—those are things to cherish.” His fingers dug in just slightly harder. “As frustrated and angry as I am right now,” he said, voice still light but with a sharp undertone, “breaking such a useful tool without reason isn’t smart. Especially when you don’t even understand what you were protecting.” The words lingered in the air, cold and deliberate. Then, finally, Volkov loosened his grip. Not enough for Wyatt to relax, but just enough to let him know who was in control. They were approaching the administrative building now, a grand structure marked by bullet holes and charred from fire. Inside, the chaos became quieter, more structured. As they passed through the hallways, the air grew heavier. Somewhere in the distance, someone was crying.
They didn’t go up the stairs but instead followed a hallway deep into the building, eventually stepping into what had once been an expensive, well-furnished conference room—now repurposed as an office. The figure at the center was familiar to Wyatt. As soon as they entered, the colonel looked up and smiled—a warm, familiar grin that only faltered for a brief second when he noticed Volkov was in the room too.
“Wyatt! My favorite merc!” he greeted, his voice carrying a mix of genuine joy and thinly veiled frustration. Then, his tone shifted as he addressed the others. “Leave us.”
The small group around him wasted no time dispersing. The air didn’t grow heavier, exactly, but colder—like a shift in pressure before a storm.
“Come, come, over here,” the colonel beckoned. Then, he turned his attention to Volkov. “Release him already.”
Volkov obeyed immediately, but Wyatt noticed the way his massive frame tensed, his ability to shift between moods effortless yet unnerving.
“Wyatt!” The colonel’s voice remained jovial, his stubby frame bouncing forward with an easy energy. His bushy mustache barely contained his lingering smile.
“Sir, a pleasure to make your acquaintance again,” Wyatt replied, caught somewhere between shock and wariness.
“Relax a bit! There’s no need to be so stiff. Come now, follow me.”
Much like Volkov, the colonel placed a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, guiding him toward the table. Despite his cheer, the air remained thick with unspoken anticipation. Wyatt noticed that, unlike before, Volkov didn’t follow. He remained on the periphery, watching, like a predator waiting for its moment. Orlov, meanwhile, was pouring two small cups of vodka.
“Cheers! To being alive.”
Wyatt, knowing the man and knowing he wouldn’t be poisoned, drank. The alcohol hit his stomach hard, snapping him out of his daze. Smart. The old man wasn’t wasting time.
He sat down without waiting for an invitation. Orlov raised an eyebrow but nodded, taking a seat across from him.
“I must say, you were a surprise, old friend,” Orlov commented, his expression unchanged, his smile lingering beneath his mustache.
“As were you,” Wyatt replied, repeating his earlier sentiment.
“So, what was your mission?” Wyatt considered his answer for a moment before responding.
“We were paid upfront at our temporary station in a town in Makran,” he said. Orlov nodded.
“Our job was to reach this city…” Wyatt hesitated. “I don’t even remember the name of this place.” At that, Volkov—who had been circling them like a great cat—stopped briefly.
“Peace, Brother, peace,” Orlov said to the big man, his tone firm. Then, he exchanged a glance with Wyatt—one that clearly said: You needn’t worry about me. Worry about him. Wyatt swallowed. Orlov poured him another glass, and he drank.
“So, we arrived,” Wyatt continued. “We noticed there was a fight going on. Managed to get close enough to get a read on the situation from a building—”
“The one that collapsed?” Orlov cut in, his calculating gaze sharpening despite his relaxed demeanor.
“Yes.”
“Was that Marshall’s idea?”
“No, mine,” Wyatt answered honestly. There was no reason to lie, not that he even knew what there was to withhold. Orlov barked a laugh.
“I expected no less from you,” he said. “Once I realized which group was blocking our advance the most, it was a pleasure to fight against you one last time.” The sudden weight in his voice hit Wyatt harder than the vodka.
“So the others…” he started, but Orlov was already shaking his head.
“I’m sorry. They’re gone. While I was coordinating the joint advance, he commanded the front.” Wyatt didn’t need to ask who he was.
From behind Orlov, Volkov reappeared, his presence causing a flicker of unease in the Russian colonel. The big man remained silent, but he did something—one of his hands slipped beneath his coat, scratching at something. A small object fell, clinking softly against the floor. Even from a distance, Wyatt could tell it was a bullet.
Volkov smiled, but there was something off about it. Tension pulled at the edges of his mouth. In the dim lighting of the office, as the day faded outside, Wyatt noticed the faint shine in Volkov’s silver eyes. The scars on his skin—some of them weren’t old. Some were burn marks. Recent ones.
“I… I—”
“I know,” Orlov interrupted gently. “I know you need space, son. But understand that we need information. I came all the way here in service of the Motherland, and my associate here…” He gestured vaguely in Volkov’s direction. “Well, he serves higher powers. Can you keep answering us?”
Wyatt wanted to ask about the bodies—where they were, how it had happened. But then he glanced at Volkov as the giant stepped back into the shadows. Perhaps that wasn’t a good idea. Instead, he took a single deep breath and pressed forward.
“Yes. The person who hired us wanted us to retrieve a package from inside a hospital, then escort it to the rendezvous point. That was it. We were paid everything upfront, with a bonus at the end.”
“And the person who hired you?”
“Some guy in a suit. Plain-looking. Plain suit, plain tie, plain everything. Said his name was John Smith.” Orlov snorted.
“I think, Brother,” he muttered, turning to Volkov, “that we’re going to reach nowhere through that route.” Wyatt could hear Volkov grinding his teeth.
“And once you got here? After you split?” Volkov pressed, his voice sharp with expectation. It was obvious that Wyatt’s target and Volkov’s were the same. As for Orlov… Wyatt glanced at the colonel and realized the man had been sent not just to lead the attack, but also to keep an eye on Volkov. Great.
“Once I broke from the rest, I took a detour and arrived just as you were shelling the hospital.”
Orlov nodded once more. “We caught you on the drone footage. That was a crazy maneuver,” he remarked, pouring himself another drink.
“Well, you didn’t leave me with much of a choice.”
“Please, mercenary, we don’t have time for that,” Volkov scoffed, the disdain in his voice palpable. Orlov shot him a warning look.
Wyatt exhaled, steadying himself. “Once inside, I was met by… operatives? I don’t know how else to describe them. They were armed, well-trained, and disguised as local forces—police and the like.”
Orlov nodded again. “Go on.”
“I was nearly shot, but a hooded figure intervened.”
At that, Volkov moved like a striking snake, closing the distance between them in an instant. He was suddenly inches from Wyatt’s face.
“Do you remember their face? Their name? Do you know what organization hired you?” His breath smelled of old leather and chemicals, his quick reaction unnerving.
A tense silence followed before Orlov’s hand landed on Volkov’s chest, pushing him back with deliberate force. The disparity in size between them was striking—the colonel was practically dwarfed by the giant, yet he didn’t waver. In the end, Volkov let out a low huff and resumed pacing, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the shock had finally worn off, but Wyatt didn’t feel as afraid anymore.
“I don’t know,” Wyatt admitted. “I only remember the eyes. The one who intercepted me had deep brown eyes, and she sounded older… The other two—one had just given birth. She had her hood down when I arrived, and she looked Scandinavian. But she didn’t stay. She handed her baby to the third one, grabbed a gun, and went to fight your advance.” Orlov’s expression remained neutral, but Volkov had stopped pacing.
“The third one?” Orlov prompted.
“Amber eyes. She was the one who went with me. Other than cryptic messages about ‘having all the time in the world,’ and ‘trusting the feithful’ she didn’t say much.” Wyatt hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “Well… aside from the baby.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth now that he had finally said them aloud.
“Baby?” Orlov repeated, glancing at Volkov.
“Yes, the one we’re here for,” Volkov answered with complete certainty.
Orlov blinked, stunned. He turned back to Wyatt. “So let me see if I understand this correctly—you were sent to retrieve a package, only to find that the package was a mother and a child. But the one who was supposed to be the mother… wasn’t the one who actually gave birth?”
“Yes… I don’t understand either.”
“And you didn’t really ask,” Orlov noted, though there was no judgment in his voice.
Wyatt sighed. “No… I know I should have. But for some reason, I felt compelled to but I didn’t. Realities of the trade.” Wyatt shrugged That made Volkov pause mid-step. Yet after a moment, he resumed his pacing.
“And after that?” Orlov prompted again.
“We moved through unseen passages and tunnels, intending to reach the sewers and lose ourselves there. But we were intercepted by…” Wyatt’s gaze shifted to the big man now watching him intently. The difference between the beast he had fought and the composed figure standing before him was striking, but those silver eyes… they were the same.
“Son,” Orlov said softly. “I know that part. I know it in detail. Please, continue.”
Wyatt swallowed and nodded. “We closed the door behind us and got lost in the sewers. Eventually, we made our way to an old lapis lazuli mine in the mountains, where we waited for pickup. That was it.”
“What did they use for pickup?”
“Some kind of high-tech vehicle, unmarked. It hummed and had active camouflage. It came from deep in the mountains and left in the same direction.” At that, both Russians leaned forward expectantly.
“Oh, right,” Wyatt said, reaching into his jacket. “The woman I escorted gave me this. She meant for me to drink it but forgot to ask for it back.”
He placed a small flask on the table. The moment Orlov and Volkov saw it, their expressions darkened. The silver, the gold, and—most importantly—the engraving.
Volkov exhaled sharply. “It’s them.”
“And they wanted us to know it was them, too… cocky bastards,” Orlov muttered. “I’ve got to say, brother, this is surprising, to be sure.” Orlov rubbed his chin. “I think your theory has merit.”
“Merit? This is proof!” Volkov’s voice rose in pitch.
To prevent an outburst, Orlov raised both hands. “Let’s finish with our friend here before we continue. And we’re giving him back his property.” Volkov had already pocketed the flask but, after a moment of hesitation, he reluctantly handed it over.
“There isn’t much more to tell, really,” Wyatt admitted. “They left. All of them had very ornate, heavy armor and weapons, and then… they were gone.” Wyatt shrugged. He had nothing else to give them. A heavy silence settled over the room, stretching for a full five seconds—long enough for the weight of everything unspoken to press down on them. The only sounds were the faint creak of Volkov’s boots as he shifted his stance and the distant hum of machinery somewhere in the building. At last, Orlov exhaled and turned to Volkov.
“I think this is enough.” His tone was calm, but firm. “He has no reason to lie, and he has nothing else to give us.” Volkov didn’t respond immediately. His sharp, calculating gaze remained locked onto Wyatt, studying him like a predator contemplating whether to strike. The intent was clear—he wanted to keep him. Wyatt met his stare, refusing to flinch. He knew better than to show weakness.
“Other than the engraving on the flask,” Wyatt continued, his voice measured, “I didn’t see any other distinctive markings. The one in charge actually wore less armor than the others. Lighter, more flexible. That’s all I’ve got.” Volkov let out a slow breath through his nose, his expression unreadable. A muscle in his jaw tightened. Orlov took a sip from his glass and set it down with a deliberate clink, drawing Volkov’s attention. “We’re done here.”
For a moment, it seemed Volkov might argue. His fingers twitched, his stance bracing as if he were about to push back. But Orlov met his gaze without wavering, and something unspoken passed between them.
With a final huff, Volkov turned away, pacing the room like a caged animal. The air was still thick with tension, but the moment had passed.
Wyatt exhaled, forcing himself to relax. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been dismissed or if the conversation had only bought him time. Either way, he was still breathing. For now.