In the pandemonium of echoing helicopters and relentless gunfire, explosions gave birth to a mist of dust and rubble, weaving a thick cloud in the turbulent wind. Within this chaotic symphony, faint words, adorned with a distinctive Russian accent, reached Smith's ears.

"Wake up...keep breathing, buddy. C'mon, wake up, you got this!"

Sirens wailed in the distance as Smith's eyes fluttered open, revealing the silhouette of a young police officer, no older than 25, adorned in a Russian uniform.

"Oh, thank the heavens, you're awake. I didn't think you were gonna make it. You're a hero! Come on, let's get you up and out of..."

A sudden gunshot shattered the officer's words, warm blood cascading down Smith's face. Composing himself, Smith found the officer slumped over him, a fresh bullet wound in his head. Someone approached in the distance, prompting Smith to grab the officer's service pistol, checking the chamber for a glimmer of hope.

As the shadow drew near, Smith employed his legs to sweep him to the ground, revealing his rifle. With a swift motion, he aimed the pistol at the man's head and pulled the trigger, then procured spare magazines from the fallen officer. In the distance, shouts erupted.

"We got a man down! Petur has been hit!"

Retreating into an alley, Smith concealed the pistol, hood up, and navigated through rubbish bags to a chain-link fence with a cut opening. Squeezing through, a sharp pain in his hip alerted him to a gunshot wound. He needed to find cover and patch himself up.

A neon sign reading "Domirsky’s Dentistry" flickered in the distance. With determination, Smith kicked open the door to what seemed an abandoned place. Securing the entrance with a chair, he entered a room, searching for a needle and stitching to tend to his wound. A bottle of vodka became an unexpected but welcome companion. Stitching up, he focused on his mission—contacting his handler and finding an escape from this chaos.

The flickering neon sign outside added an eerie glow to the abandoned waiting area. His eyes scanned the room, searching for anything that might serve as makeshift medical supplies.

His mind, a labyrinth of memories hidden behind the stoic façade, echoed with the haunting whispers of his past. S.M.I.T.H.—(Secure, Maintain, Intercept and tactically handle) the acronym itself an enigma wrapped in layers of government secrecy. As far back as he could remember, he had been a mere cog in a vast, clandestine machine, stripped of his name and moulded into a living weapon.

The pain in his hip served as a cruel reminder of the physical toll exacted by a life spent in the shadows. It mirrored the deeper wounds etched into his psyche. He hadn't chosen this path; it was imposed upon him, a destiny woven into his DNA.

A twisted sense of humour flickered in the corners of his consciousness. The absurdity of it all struck him—the irony that a man named Smith could be anything but ordinary. His name, or rather the lack of it, was a paradox, a code to be deciphered by those who understood the intricate dance between shadows and government agendas.

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Anger, a constant companion, simmered beneath the surface. It fuelled his every move, a volatile force that propelled him through the maelstrom of his existence. The dentistry's desolation mirrored the wreckage within him, a reflection of the fractured psyche that lay beneath the veneer of the operative known only as Smith.

Using a sat phone, Smith reached out to the "mothership."

"Mothership, it's Smith. I have the package."

"What's your tracking number?"

"S176347. I have the package, It's secure."

Abruptly, the voice on the other end warned of a 90-minute window for extraction due to Moscow's overthrow. Smith was directed to head to Reutov for transport to the coast. With 87 minutes, he must move swiftly.

Being a smith meant abiding by three rules: staying armed, blending in, and never inquiring about package contents. The chair blocking the door crashed, signalling approaching footsteps. Smith positioned himself, ready for confrontation.

In a thick Russian accent, a voice threatened, "I'm gonna kill you, American."

Smith's instincts kicked in. With lightning speed, he delivered a ruthless punch to the man's throat, silencing him temporarily. The approaching militia, now aware of Smith's presence, closed in, their intentions clear.

Undeterred, Smith seized the nearest adversary, using him as a human shield. The man struggled futilely as Smith, with calculated brutality, delivered a bone-crushing blow to the back of his head. The sound of the impact echoed through the desolate room.

As another militia member entered, oblivious to the danger that awaited, Smith wasted no time. With a swift and precise movement, he aimed his pistol between the man's armpit and pulled the trigger, sending a lethal message. The unfortunate soul crumpled to the floor, blood spewing from his mouth.

Smith, now standing, maintained his grip on the disoriented human shield. With a cold determination, he pressed the barrel of his gun against the top of the man's head. However, in a twist of fate, the firearm jammed, sparing the militia member for a moment.

Unfazed, Smith unleashed a powerful strike with the butt of his pistol, rendering the man unconscious. Swiftly clearing the jam in the gun, Smith headed for the door. The fallen militia, struggling for his last breath, attempted to cling to Smith's leg.

"Sorry, pal...dentist is on holiday."

A vicious kick to the teeth silenced the dying man as Smith, gun tucked away, hood up, and face concealed, left the dentist office and melted into the shadows of the alley. The violence may have subsided momentarily, but the storm within Smith raged on as he navigated the blood-stained streets, each step bringing him closer to the uncertain path that lay ahead.

As Smith slipped out of the dentist's office, the rain-soaked streets bore witness to the aftermath of chaos. Gunshots echoed like a grim symphony, the puddles beneath his boots tainted with the dark hue of spilled blood. The distant growl of an engine signalled the approach of a militia truck, its occupants revelling in the twisted game they played.

Hiding behind the wreckage of a burnt-out car, Smith resisted the temptation to draw his weapon. Time was of the essence, and he couldn't afford to be seen. The door of a nearby bookstore swung open, and a delicate Russian voice pierced the tense air.

"Psst...эй, мистер... идите сюда, здесь безопасно." ("Psst...hey, mister... come here, it's safe.")

Surveying the speaker, Smith resorted to his signature sign language ruse.

"заходи внутрь, я тебя защитю." ("Come inside, I will protect you.") She gestured, emphasizing safety.

"Listen, lady...whatever you're saying, I don't have time to learn. Is there a back door? A DOOR...in the BACK?" Smith replied, urgency coloring his words.

"Ah...you are the one they are looking for. Don't worry, come. It is safe."

With a shrug and a sense of cautious curiosity, Smith followed the mysterious woman into the dimly lit bookstore. The scent of musty books hung in the air, mingling with the tension that permeated the room. As the door creaked closed behind him, Smith braced for whatever awaited, his journey through this nightmarish Moscow taking an unexpected turn.