The control room buzzed with quiet urgency, a symphony of low voices and the hum of high-tech machinery. Screens lined the walls, flickering with seismic charts, thermal imaging, and scrolling streams of data. The air was cold, clinical, the kind of cold that sank into the bones and made everyone hyper-aware of their breath in the silence.
“Seismic readings are spiking,” one operator said, her voice sharp as she leaned closer to her monitor. “Something’s moving down there.”
“Moving? That area’s been geologically dead for centuries,” her colleague replied, spinning his chair to glance at her screen. His tone carried the skepticism of a man too long in the field.
“Look for yourself.” She jabbed a finger at the thermal display. A bright pulse of heat flickered against the frozen backdrop of the Caucasus Mountains. “Tell me what that is.”
He squinted, his confidence wavering. “Could be geothermal. Maybe a hidden fissure.”
“Fissures don’t glow,” she snapped.
Behind them, Commander Mikhail Stepanovich approached, his boots clicking sharply against the polished floor. He loomed over the consoles, his sharp eyes narrowing on the pulsing heat signature.
“What’s the reading?” he barked.
“Energy signature,” the first operator said, swiveling in her chair. “Massive. It doesn’t match anything in our database.”
“Radiation?” Stepanovich asked, his voice clipped.
“None detected,” the second operator replied. “It’s clean.”
Stepanovich leaned closer, studying the screen. The pulse was rhythmic, steady, like the beat of a drum or a heartbeat. It didn’t sit right, not in his gut.
“Get me Major Volkov,” he ordered.
Major Dmitry Volkov arrived moments later, his presence quiet yet commanding. He moved with the precision of a blade, efficient, sharp, and purposeful. His uniform was spotless, his eyes a pale, calculating gray that scanned the screens with practiced detachment.
“An anomaly?” he asked, his voice low and calm.
Stepanovich gestured to the display. “Mount Elbrus. Caucasus range. Energy spike started an hour ago. No explanation.”
Volkov frowned slightly, leaning in. “Mount Elbrus? That region’s been dormant for ages.”
“Not anymore,” the first operator interjected, her voice tight.
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Volkov’s gaze lingered on the thermal image. The glow was too bright, too contained. “Satellite visuals?”
“Clear skies,” the second operator said. “Nothing visible. Whatever it is, it’s under the ice.”
“Subsurface readings?” Volkov asked.
“Clean. No radiation, no emissions.” The operator hesitated, then added, “But... it feels wrong, sir. Too clean.”
Stepanovich straightened; his tone grim. “You’re going in.”
Volkov’s response was immediate. “When?”
“Now,” Stepanovich said. “Recon only. Eyes on the ground. Report back. If it’s a threat, secure it.”
“And if it’s not?” Volkov asked, his voice unreadable.
“It’s still a threat.”
Volkov nodded once, already turning to leave. Stepanovich called after him.
“Take what you need, but you’re alone on this one. Radio silence until extraction.”
“Understood,” Volkov said without looking back.
***
The crunch of snow under his boots was the only sound Dmitry Volkov allowed himself. Each step was precise against the treacherous incline of the frozen cliff face. The ice shimmered in the faint daylight, promising both beauty and death in equal measure. His climbing gear gleamed with frost, each carabiner snapping into place with as he drove his axe into the ice and pulled himself higher.
The wind clawed at him, shrieking across the barren landscape, threatening to tear him from the rock face. He pressed on, firm, his movements deliberate and steady. The muscles in his arms burned, but he ignored the pain. Pain was a companion, an old friend who knew its place.
At the summit, he paused, kneeling against the icy outcrop as he scanned the horizon. The mountain stretched endlessly in all directions, jagged peaks piercing the pale sky like the ribs of some ancient beast. He could see nothing but white and gray, the landscape devoid of life. Yet he felt it, something unseen, watching.
He pulled out a handheld device, checking his bearings. The energy signature was still there, pulsing faintly on the screen like a beacon. Volkov exhaled, his breath a cloud of frost. “Still ahead,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his pack and moving on.
The hunt came at dusk. The sun dipped below the mountains, casting long shadows that stretched across the snow like reaching hands. Volkov crouched low near a rock formation, his knife glinting in his hand. A small snare sat a few meters away, expertly crafted, its loop hidden beneath a thin layer of snow.
Patience.
He waited, his eyes locked on the trap. Minutes passed, then an hour. The cold seeped into his bones, but he didn’t move. Finally, movement, something small and quick darted toward the snare. A hare, its fur blending seamlessly with the snow, sniffed cautiously at the bait.
Volkov’s hand tightened on the knife as the snare snapped. In a single, fluid motion, he was on it, dispatching the animal cleanly and efficiently. He cleaned the blade on the snow, quietly.
Later, as the fire crackled weakly against the howling wind, he roasted the meat, his gaze fixed on the flames. The warmth did little to stave off the chill. Something about the cold here was wrong, it didn’t seem natural.
That night, he saw the wolf.
The creature stood atop a distant ridge, its silhouette stark against the pale light of the moon. Its eyes glinted unnaturally, reflecting not just the light but something deeper, more knowing.
Volkov rose slowly from his camp, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. The wolf didn’t move. It didn’t growl, didn’t snarl. It simply watched, its breath clouding in the air.
He could feel it again, the sense of being watched. But it wasn’t coming from the wolf.
The animal turned its head sharply, ears twitching, and then disappeared into the shadows without a sound. Volkov lowered his hand but didn’t relax. The wind picked up, whistling low and mournful through the mountains.
He slept lightly that night, his knife close at hand.
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