The air was thick with smoke and fear, the trees closing in as we ran, hearts racing, breaths coming out sharp and raw. The whole plan had unraveled in seconds, the soldiers advancing with an unyielding calm, bullets tearing through the brush as we scrambled down the ridge. Behind me, Yuri's footsteps faltered, then stopped altogether. But I couldn’t stop—I couldn’t afford to look back.

"Keep moving," I whispered to myself, stumbling over rocks and roots, forcing my legs to obey, every step felt heavier, as if the earth itself had turned against us.

Somewhere behind me, their voices rose, guttural and sharp, cutting through the trees. I could hear the snapping branches, the relentless crunch of their boots drawing closer. The only hope now lay in the creek up ahead. If I could just reach it, if I could just slip into the dark water, maybe I could lose them, let the river carry me to safety. It was foolish, desperate. But all I had left was the instinct to survive.

A shot rang out, so close it seemed to split the air beside my ear. The crack of the rifle sent me stumbling, my body instinctively dropping low to the ground as I forced myself forward, breath hitching. The cold wetness of mud splattered against my hands and chest, the scent of iron and smoke thick in my nose.

Then pain.

Searing, blinding pain. My legs buckled beneath me, the world spinning as I collapsed, my body twisting awkwardly on the forest floor. I gasped, fingers clutching instinctively at my side, feeling the warmth of blood seeping through my coat, pooling under my hand. The world blurred at the edges, but the pain burned sharply, a red-hot brand that pinned me down.

The forest was silent, save for the quiet crunch of boots over dead leaves and the distant calls of my comrades. The last of the skirmish had died down, leaving only the clean-up. I scanned the ground as I moved forward, rifle raised, eyes sharp but unfazed. It didn’t take long to find him.

I could hear them now, closer, their voices low and certain, boots crunching softly over leaves and gravel. They didn’t need to hurry. They knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

The forest blurred above me, the dark branches blending into the mist. My breaths came shallow and weak, every rise and fall of my chest a struggle, each second stretching, cold seeping into me from the ground. The sounds around me began to fade, my vision narrowing to a dim tunnel, the trees growing distant, abstract.

He was slumped against a tree trunk, his hand pressed weakly against his side, where blood soaked through his jacket. He barely lifted his head as I approached, eyes glassy, unfocused. His breathing was shallow, a faint rasping sound in the cool air.

I raised my boot and pressed it against his shoulder, rolling him onto his back with a single motion. He offered no resistance, his eyes flickering as they struggled to focus on me. The faint movement of his mouth told me he was trying to speak, but I didn’t wait for the sound. I looked down at him, noting the color draining from his face, his hand trembling as it fell from his side.

I tried to speak, to say something—maybe a curse, a plea, or a prayer. But the words never came. Only a faint, gasping whisper that vanished into the mist as the edges of my vision darkened.

He looked up at me with the same expression I’d seen a hundred times—a mix of fear and something else, something I never cared to examine. It would be over in seconds. I felt nothing, just the passing of time, just the turning of the page.

And then, just like that, his breathing slowed, his eyes fixed somewhere distant, beyond me, beyond anything here. I watched as his chest rose and fell, once, twice, and then was still.

Without a word, I straightened, shifting the rifle back over my shoulder as I turned, glancing briefly over the quiet, empty stretch of forest. The job was done. As the forest grew quiet again, I turned from the body, my rifle heavy but familiar on my shoulder. I walked back toward the trail, my steps slow, measured. Killing never faze me; it hadn’t not even the first time. Not when it was just another job, another paycheck. It was a routine I knew as well as breathing.

I learned to survive young. My hometown was a decaying industrial pit in the middle of nowhere, where the only futures seemed to be wasted inside those crumbling factory walls or buried under them. My old man had chosen the first option, drinking himself numb every night after his shifts, wearing that tired look I came to despise. I wasn’t going to be him. By seventeen, I’d found my way out, joining up with a small militia—barely more than a gang, if I’m being honest, but they had weapons, training, and something to offer me. I didn’t care if I was a grunt to them; I was fed, I was armed, and I had my escape.

That was nearly twenty years ago. Since then, I’ve worn patches from so many different groups, most of them don’t mean a thing to me anymore. Countries, leaders, causes—I’ve served them all, but I’m loyal only to one thing: the next contract. Some men like to find meaning in their work, believe they’re part of something bigger. I dropped that notion a long time ago. Now, when I take a job, I don’t ask why, and I don’t care who. They’re targets, obstacles, and, eventually, bodies. Nothing more.

The others in my current unit have taken to calling me “Sova.” Something about how I watch, wait, strike without a hint of emotion. Fine by me. I’ve learned not to think too hard about nicknames—most guys don’t know my real name anyway, and I don’t need to know theirs. This work is cleaner that way, simpler. I take orders, I get the job done, and I move on before any of it starts to matter.

Today was no different. Guerrillas in these hills had been causing trouble, ambushing supply lines, spreading resistance against the occupying forces. I was hired to handle it, and I’d done just that. I watched them break, saw their ambush fall apart the second we picked up on their traps. That boy was just another casualty, his face already slipping from my memory even as I turned my back on him.

It was better this way. I’d learned early on that carrying their faces, their last looks, their silence—well, it made the work heavier. It made it personal. So, I trained myself to turn away, to move on, to let each kill blur into the next. It’s survival, plain and simple. Emotions in this line of work are dangerous; they chip away at you until you’re no good to anyone.

By the time I made it to the rendezvous point, I’d already forgotten the boy’s face, his lifeless stare aimed somewhere into the trees. A few of the others were waiting, leaning against trees, faces blank as they checked their gear. We exchanged nods, silent acknowledgments. The job was done. In a few hours, we’d be gone, leaving nothing but empty hills and another village rumor about shadows in the forest.

I’m a ghost in this life, nothing but a name whispered by the people who hire me, the ones who think I’m something more than I am. But I’m just here to do a job, here to leave when it’s over. And that’s how I like it.

______________________________________________

Awhile latter...

As we packed up back at camp, the routine felt like any other job winding down. Luka tightened the last strap on his gear, giving a nod. We didn’t usually talk much, and it was no different today, even with a new assignment waiting for me.

“So, you’re really taking the Korea job?” Luka asked, his voice casual, though his eyes watched me closely.

“Yeah,” I replied, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Bodyguard position. Standard security for a client with business in Pyongyang. Pays well, and it’s straightforward work. They want someone who can keep quiet and stay alert.”

He nodded, giving a half-smile. “Guess it’s a step up from chasing rebels through mud and trees.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Maybe,” I said, shrugging. “It’s different work, but it’s still a job.”

The transport was ready, engine running, and I felt the usual detachment setting in. New place, new contract, same routine. Luka shifted, glancing around the camp before giving me a curt nod.

“Anyway, I’ll still be here,” he said, looking back toward the forest, indifferent. “Another unit’s coming in, but it’ll be the same deal. Clearing out fighters, holding the line.”

I held out my hand. He gripped it, brief and firm, and then stepped back, adjusting his rifle.

“Don’t get soft out there,” he said with a faint smirk. “Bodyguard work and all. Might end up missing the mud.”

I gave a slight nod, the corner of my mouth turning up. “I’ll manage.”

With that, I turned and headed for the transport without looking back. Luka would be here, keeping to the same cycle, and I’d be in Korea by the end of the week. It was just another job, another stretch of work before the next assignment. And that was enough.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The journey began in the back of the truck, the engine rumbling beneath me as the landscape blurred past—cold, damp forested hills giving way to patchy fields. The mist clung to everything, muffling sound, the only light coming from the dim glow of the cab up front. The forest, the rough roads, the fog—they were familiar, routine. I'd traveled these trails too many times to count.

Hours later, we reached the barracks, tucked away behind tall fences, lit by only a few floodlights that flickered weakly in the darkness. The bare bones of the building showed its purpose—temporary housing for transient soldiers. Inside, rows of metal bunks and scuffed concrete floors greeted me, as indifferent as always. I tossed my bag onto a bunk, stretched out for a few hours, my body recognizing the routine of a soldier between assignments, indifferent to its surroundings. The barracks had the smell of oil and sweat, of boots that had marched too many miles. I barely slept, the buzz of the fluorescent lights ticking away the hours until I would be gone.

At dawn, the transport truck was waiting outside, and by midday I was at the airport, my only belongings stashed in a worn duffle bag slung over my shoulder. The stark change in scenery was jarring: the barracks gave way to polished floors and the constant flow of civilians in crisp suits, travelers who looked more polished than anyone I’d seen in months. The smell of coffee and jet fuel mingled as I navigated the clean, sterile space, keeping my head down, used to being part of the background.

I boarded the plane without ceremony. It was a commercial flight, anonymous. Settling into the seat, I watched the landscape change through the small, scratched window as we lifted off. The forests were soon replaced by clouds, then the lights of distant cities I didn’t bother to identify.

When I landed, a driver was waiting, holding a sign with my alias printed neatly on it. We drove into the city, the lights reflecting off skyscrapers and glistening sidewalks still damp from a recent rain. The hotel was modern, sleek, a sharp contrast to the barracks—a place for people who had no use for the noise of conflict. I checked in, riding the elevator to my room in silence, looking out over the city below, neon lights stretching into the distance. The bed was plush, the sheets crisp and clean. I let the unfamiliar comfort settle over me, aware of the strange quiet that comes with cities untouched by conflict.

In the morning, I put on the pressed suit I had prepared, the bullet resistant couldn't hurt, moving through the motions of looking like one of them, while keeping estranged. The driver took me to the company building, a tower of glass and steel, reflective and impersonal, with security waiting to scan my ID before I stepped inside. The place felt cold, pristine, as if untouched by anything outside its controlled, corporate world. People moved through the halls without a glance in my direction, used to contractors like me slipping in and out.

Finally, I arrived at the top floor, where my new client waited. The polished floors, clean walls, and well-kept greenery contrasted sharply with the dirt and smoke of the forests I’d left behind. It felt distant, manufactured—a world that didn’t need to understand the one I’d just left.

As I stepped into the security office on the top floor of the building, the gleam of polished steel and glass surrounded me, the quiet hum of the city outside muffled by the thick windows. Inside, two other guards were already waiting. They gave me a quick once-over, their expressions calm and reserved, each of them assessing me just as I was them.

The first was a Korean woman, standing near the door with arms crossed, her gaze sharp, alert. She wore a tailored security uniform, her posture impeccably straight, the kind of discipline that marked years in the military. Her name tag read Choi, and she moved with the practiced precision I recognized immediately—someone trained not just in combat but in structure and order. Her eyes were quick, scanning her surroundings constantly, dark and steady beneath a pulled-back bun. There was a quiet authority to her, a presence that made it clear she was in control without needing to say it.

As I approached, she gave me a brief nod. “You must be the agent from Enimicus Group,” she said, her tone formal, clipped.

“Right,” I replied. “Former military?”

“ROK Army,” she confirmed. “Eight years. I came into private work a couple of years ago. Less red tape, more direct action.” Her words were efficient, no extra details, her expression revealing little. Her time in the Republic of Korea Army had taught her the value of silence, and she wielded it well.

The second guard, leaning casually against a wall near the monitor display, was almost her complete opposite in demeanor. He had the relaxed posture and easy expression of someone who had seen the worst but didn’t let it weigh him down. His name was Park, and I could see a faint scar along his jawline, just visible beneath a faint shadow of stubble.

“You’re the new guy, huh?” he said, a faint smirk on his lips as he looked me over. “Welcome to the team.”

“Park,” he said, extending a hand. “Formerly with the NPA. Spent ten years on the force before deciding there was more money—and less paperwork—on this side of things.” He spoke with an easygoing tone, but I noticed his eyes were sharp, observant. He might seem relaxed, but he hadn’t missed a single detail of the room since I’d entered. Like me, he was used to reading people, watching for any sign of a threat.

As I set my bag down and glanced around the room, Park’s eyes lingered on me a bit longer, sizing me up in a way I was used to. His easy smirk didn’t drop, but his expression had sharpened with subtle curiosity.

“So,” he said, crossing his arms, his tone casual but with a faint edge, “where’re you from? Somewhere up north? Can’t quite place that accent.”

“Eastern Europe,” I replied simply, keeping my voice neutral, eyes steady on him. I was used to this kind of question, the way people liked to prod when they couldn’t quite fit you into a familiar box.

“Figures,” he said, his smirk widening just a bit. “Kind of a… ‘cold climate’ look to you.” He made the comment lightly, but his tone held a hint of implication, a stereotype I knew well. To him, I was probably just another ex-Soviet block type, someone whose past would be stamped with violence and shadows. Mercenaries from my side of the world carried reputations we couldn’t shake, even when it was a clean job like this one.

I gave him a brief nod, unphased. “Cold climate’s where I got my experience,” I said evenly, not giving him more. “The work’s the same wherever you go.”

Park gave a small chuckle, nodding, but I caught the glance he shared with Choi. He leaned back, crossing his arms, an eyebrow raised as he regarded me. “I get it. Makes sense why they’d pull you in for a job like this.”

“Meaning?” I asked, my tone still neutral but my eyes narrowing just slightly. I didn’t like games, especially not when it came to my background.

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “No offense,” he said, the smirk never leaving his face. “Just that guys from your part of the world have a certain… reputation, you know? Efficient, let’s say. No fuss, no questions.”

Choi, who had been quiet, gave him a sharp look. “Enough, Park,” she said, voice clipped. “We’re here to do a job, not size each other up. Sova’s experience speaks for itself. You know that’s why he’s here.”

“Relax, Choi.” Park shrugged, his smile fading just slightly. “Just trying to get a feel for the new guy.”

I nodded curtly, letting the exchange drop. Park could think whatever he liked about me; I wasn’t here to prove anything to him. I’d been brought on for my skill, just as he had, and that would be enough. Choi’s glance flicked between us, reading the tension, but she didn’t press it further.

In the end, the job would define itself. We all had our roles, our backgrounds, but the only thing that mattered was that we were professionals.

I nodded, appreciating the balance between them. Choi had the military discipline and focused command, a natural leader in a security operation. Park, meanwhile, had that streetwise alertness, someone who knew how to handle unpredictable situations. They both brought different strengths to the table, which, if we worked well together, could make this job smooth and efficient.

Our client was paying well for top security, and from the looks of it, he’d assembled a team that could handle anything thrown our way. I kept my face neutral, nodding once to each of them as I set my gear down, ready to settle into the next stage of the job.

I kept my face blank, ready to begin the work as just another shadow in this polished, indifferent place.