In the midst of chaos, Smith stepped into the bookstore, a haven of tranquillity amidst the cacophony outside. The juxtaposition between the serene atmosphere and the city's turmoil struck him like a dream, an illusion of normalcy in the heart of pandemonium. Placing his bag on a table, he took a moment to collect himself, contemplating his next move. Perhaps this woman could guide him to the quickest escape route from the city. A vending machine caught his eye, and he decided a snack wouldn't hurt.

Approaching the machine, Smith shattered the glass with the grip of his pistol. As he turned, he noticed the woman approaching his bag, and he swiftly aimed the gun at her.

"If you know what's good for you, you wouldn't go near that bag."

"I was just looking...It's a nice bag...how much do you want for it?"

Smith couldn't help but find humour in the situation. These backpacks, issued by their handlers, were more than meets the eye – Kevlar-lined and designed to secure their contents. "I'm not here for a trade, I'm here to get off the street for a second. I need to get to Reutov...what's the quickest route?"

Seizing the bag and securing it with a chocolate bar hanging from his mouth, Smith examined the table and spotted car keys.

"You have a car? I need it. I'll pay you."

Offering money, he was met with a puzzled look. "$12,000 should cover the damages and potential bullet holes that may end up on the car..."

"I'll drive you to Reutov...but you're not having my father's car."

Realizing the danger The lady would face, Smith hesitated, but she insisted, "Get in the trunk?"

"Sorry, what? No, I'm not sitting in the trunk for you to take me anywhere I don't know...Who even are you? I don't know your name."

"Mila...my name is Mila Krolik."

"Okay, Mila, nice to fucking meet you. Now, let's get those keys before they break the door down and find us having a nice little AA meeting."

"Like I said, I'll drive you, Mr... What is your name?"

"Not important...just get me to Reutov. We have 63 minutes before I have no chance of getting home."

"Okay, Mr... Not important, let's go."

Exiting through the back door, Smith grabbed more snacks and water from a broken vending machine, contemplating the danger Mila had unwittingly signed up for. Protecting civilians wasn't part of the mission, but if she was his ticket out of town, it made sense to bring her along. As they faced a less-than-impressive Prius, Smith couldn't help but express his disdain.

"We're going in this...? An old banged-up 40-year-old Prius?"

"This car is reliable...eco-friendly and quiet as a mouse."

"There are literal bodies decaying in the streets, and you're worried about being eco-friendly?! Whatever, let's go...and it's quiet...not quite."

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"Oh...quiet, yes. It will take us there...45-minute drive, and you'll be on your way home, Mr. Not Important."

Smith climbed into the car, and the glove compartment swung open, hitting his knees.

"Nice to see these cars still hold up to being a piece of shit...Unbelievable. I hope Mila knows what she's doing."

Driving through the devastated city, Smith observed the wreckage and bodies, a scene straight out of a horror movie. The air hung thick with the fog of violence and pain. Though he anticipated Mila's demise, it wasn't his problem. He couldn't wait to get home, a few more jobs, and he'd be a free man.

"There's a Militsiya checkpoint ahead. Don't make a sound, Smith...I'll handle this."

As a Militia member approached, Mila spun a convincing tale about Smith's workplace accident. Smith, feigning sign language, played along, giving a thumbs up as they passed through the checkpoint. However, the guard halted them.

"Wait! Stop!"

Ready for anything, Smith braced himself. If Mila got him killed this close to the exit, it would be infuriating.

"What's the problem, sir?"

"Your brake light is out...You may want to get that checked before someone hits you from behind. Drive safe."

"Oh, thank you! Goodbye now."

"Do svidaniya."

Continuing their drive, Smith pondered Mila's ability to weave lies. Close calls aside, he was on the way to extraction and, soon, back on a boat home.

As Smith sat in the passenger seat of the battered Prius, the recent encounter at the Militsiya checkpoint played on a loop in his mind. The adrenaline rush began to subside, giving way to a stream of thoughts, doubts, and a touch of dark humour.

"That was cutting it too close. I'm not sure if Mila's a natural-born storyteller or if that checkpoint guard had the intelligence of a rock. Either way, I can't afford to let my guard down. This is Moscow, a city turned upside down, and I'm the outsider trying to slip through the chaos.

Never thought I'd be riding shotgun in a Prius through a war-torn Moscow with a woman I just met. And a Prius, of all things. The irony is not lost on me – bodies strewn across the streets, and we're cruising in an eco-friendly vehicle. The world's gone mad.

Mila seems like a decent person, naïve maybe, but decent. She's risking her neck just by helping me, and that makes her either brave or foolish. Time will tell which.

Back there at the checkpoint, when the guard mentioned the brake light, my heart skipped a beat. It's a detail that could've blown the whole act. Thankfully, the guy was more concerned about eco-friendly cars than checking for wanted criminals. A stroke of luck or maybe just sheer incompetence.

The streets are a haunting tableau of destruction, a canvas painted with violence and despair. I've seen my fair share of urban nightmares, but Moscow takes the cake. What happened to this city is beyond comprehension – a descent into madness.

The mission is clear: get to Reutov, catch the extraction, and hightail it out of this nightmare. But then what? What's in that damn package I'm supposed to deliver back to the States? The agency never lets me in on the big picture, just sends me on these dangerous fetch quests. I've been a pawn in their game for too long.

And Mila...she's just trying to survive in a world gone mad. Her story about the rise of the Militsiya, the government's fall, it's like something out of a dystopian novel. But in this novel, she's caught up with a protagonist who doesn't even know what he's carrying.

I've got a warped sense of humour, a temper that's more unpredictable than a Russian winter, and I'm stuck in a plot where I'm both the hero and the unwitting fool. Smith, that's what they call me. Just Smith. Stripped of my identity by the agency, raised to be a soldier, and sent off to play their games.

This city...it's a pressure cooker, and every step I take is like dancing on a minefield. I can't afford mistakes, especially when I'm partnered with someone who's both my lifeline and a potential liability.

Mila's driving us toward Reutov. The countdown is ticking. I've got a package of unknown contents, a woman who's stepped into my bizarre world, and a city that's crumbling around us. The storm inside me isn't settling; it's just gathering strength."

As Smith brooded over these thoughts, the Prius moved through the desolate streets of Moscow, each pothole and twisted wreckage beneath its tires a reminder of the volatile path that lay ahead.