“If what she said is correct, it’s supposed to be around here,” I mutter to myself as I shuffle through the narrow path between the production plant and the obscured backside of the outdoor infirmary. During my few times on night guard duty, I often wandered around these obscured walkways. I wasn’t the most dutiful trooper, but at least I knew the way to get outside the major building without being detected. Today is the first time I’m putting my knowledge to good use, at least since the day Roman and I sneaked out to where we’d hidden our biscuits and IRPRUS food bars.

Sneaking out wasn’t that hard, really.

As I’ve mentioned, the guards watch over almost every single meter within the complex. Almost every meter, except for this place: the abandoned warehouse, one of the few constructed places outside of the main building that everyone occupied.

I trace my fingers over an old poster, still pasted on the rough concrete wall outside the warehouse. The lower half is torn, charred, and in all honesty, of worse quality than toilet paper, but I can still make out what it’s trying to say. Three factory workers, all with helmets on their heads and hands placed over their eyebrows, looking at the metaphorical flamboyant sunshine in the far corner. A large embossed text at the top reads CEASELESS PRODUCTION! while three smaller lines of text on top of the workers’ heads read, For today! For tomorrow! For every day after tomorrow! The fading, yellowish color of the paper speaks for its longevity, though I’m surprised it didn’t turn to ash in the infamous 1980 Izhevsk Zavod fire.

The soldiers of Izhevsk weren’t those who suffered, but factory workers did, or so they claimed. Their version of the story was that Smolnikov’s troops had nowhere near enough weapons, so they pushed workers to meet ridiculous demands. They worked non-stop; every hour of the day, every day of the week. That didn’t go down well. The workers even got the guts to riot, but to no avail. Rumor has it one told his coworker that if there wasn’t a factory, they wouldn’t have had to work anymore. Coincidentally, a fire broke out the following week, burning almost every single piece of equipment (and a bunch of people) to a crisp.

According to official records, the fire had been caused by one of Pavlyuchenko’s spies. That’s the more believable version. There’s no way factory workers would stand up against law and order! That would make them traitors to the regime. Those committed to the state doctrine should know that traitors are the lowest of the lows.

The walls and watchtowers surrounding Izhevsk were built back when tanks didn’t exist, and the leaders didn’t care to convert this fort into something else even after forts have proven to be antiquated and inadequate against current weaponry. Seems like the siege of Przemyśl didn’t teach them anything. Maybe they thought there’s no need to upgrade Izhevsk, an urbanizing settlement with the most important structure being a mechanical plant specializing in producing small arms. Evidently, after the war broke out between Pavlyuchenko and our Supreme Leader Smolnikov, Pavlyuchenko launched swift attacks on Smolnikov’s other major cities and seized control of oil exploration sites. Izhevsk only came to mind after Perm and Kazan had fallen, which in my opinion is a massive oversight from both sides. The key railroad for coal and fuel transportation cuts through Izhevsk so leaving a defensive facility just forty kilometers East of it unchecked calls for unnecessary trouble.

Because of Tatarstan’s own incompetence, there wasn’t enough time to fortify Izhevsk into a modern defensive blockhouse. That’s why warehouses with no roof, no equipment, and no electricity, and therefore no inhabitants—just like this one—exist. At least the concrete walls here withstood the test of fire.

I ponder the words she has repeated to me, no less than three times.

“A small silver ring with a diamond eye mounted on it, and the words From Papa engraved on the sides,” she’d said.

I have no idea who Papa is, but I’ll save the questions for when I actually do find this ring.

I’ve never seen a ring before, and she expects me to find it based on the generic description of a ‘metal jewelry piece that fits around the finger’? I’ve ravaged every corner, from my room to this warehouse that she said she escaped from. Try as I might, I couldn’t find anything that fit the description of the ring. If the object actually exists, this must be the only place it could be. Or maybe the little piece of shit is deep under a meter of snow, who knows?

I scan the surroundings before heading to the door. It was going to be simple. I was just going to open this door, sneak in, grab her damn ring, and sneak out again.

Until I twist the doorknob, that is.

It’s . . . locked. Why the fuck is it locked? The roof has been blown away, but that doesn’t mean there’s no use for it. It could be used as a strategic hiding place to plan sneak attacks on your opponents if they happen to successfully penetrate through the walls.

I can simply head back and tell her I couldn’t find the ring. That’d be the smarter thing, actually. A few guys in my section have already nicknamed me ‘the wanderer’ for always badgering around random places. It’s fine if they think I’m a slacker, but I know better than risking one of them reporting me for unusual activities. That guy Sprinter might actually do it. He’s never liked me that much.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

However, I’m not one to pull out of a prior agreement. Also, a locked door can’t be ignored. Not out here.

I inspect the wall. It’s only three meters high. A few conveniently recessed holes on an otherwise smooth surface provide grips for me to cling to. And you know what they say about places you can cling to. Where there’s a grip point, there’s a climber.

So I climb.

What awaits me on the other side is, unfortunately, not a diamond ring.

“What the hell is this shit?”

A huge box sits in the middle of the room, a green light blinking on the electronic dashboard in the front. The sheer size of the leviathan makes me certain I can renovate it into a small room if I had a piece of furniture and some wallpaper.

Damn sure it wasn’t here last time!

I scout the room, but the ring is nowhere to be found. I even dig up some snow, but it’s gonna be impossible for me to scratch the entire floor clean. A couple of days has passed since the last time I patrol these parts, and the snow should be a few inches thicker by now.

That leaves me with one place left to check: the box.

“It seems kinda suspicious though,” I mutter to myself, but then shrug it off. What’s the worst that could happen? A full-scale ambush, Trojan-horse style?

I notice that the safe door is already half-open, but the door is shielding my vision. As I step to the side, I catch glimpses of a dim, beryl-colored glow radiating from inside.

That must be the ring. I’ve never seen a ring before in my life, but I assume only diamond shines that bright, no?

The closer I step toward the vault, the more nervous I get. The door to the outside is locked, and a giant-ass box literally appearing out of nowhere is something not to accept at face value. Faint light glitters from inside that box.

I have a feeling I’m not supposed to be here. This is probably a solid nine on the ‘suspicious crap’ scale.

As I’m about to get a look inside the box, a voice rings out from the outside. “Open the door.”

Are there patrols here now, as well? Who the fuck patrols a locked room?

“The other key. The other key, you idiot!” The person repeats, presumably to whoever is with him.

Hold on. I recognize the voice. It’s Maksim Maksimov, Commander Dzyuba’s direct subordinate. I don’t know what exactly he does—he’s not in charge of the front line like Smolov, nor does he take care of patrolling duties like Dzyuba, and he obviously doesn’t go on the offensive like Ushakov. Nevertheless, if Dzyuba happens to show his face outside, Maksimov will accompany him.

What do I do? Hide inside the box?

I can’t do that. Obviously, they’re checking on it. That would mean they’d be looking inside.

“Hurry up. We don’t want to miss lunchtime.”

“Yeah, like I would ever! I’m starving, sir! Even horseshit is gonna smell like butterscotch and honeycomb!”

“Then save your energy and don’t whine! We gotta find it. After we’ve found the ring, I’ll get you some butter, okay?”

“Butter?” The other voice gets marginally more cheery.

“Butter.”

I don’t recognize the other voice, but I’m guessing he’s Maksim’s henchman. The thing about henchmen is that they’re keen on recruiting their own water boys as well, so they can feel like mini-bosses.

I gander around the room and see a really old gun assembly machine covered by piles of snow. A hiding place!

I run behind the machine and conceal myself. A creaking sound reverberates, and the door opens. The two men shuffle hurriedly into the room. Maksim is still Maksim—slim body inclining forward, brows sloping backward, and a sly pair of eyes that perpetually scrutinizes you. The other dude looks like a giant juggernaut, with the face of a castrated donkey. I decide to call him Donkey for now.

“Come on, come on!” Maksim shouts at Donkey. “You eat nothing but bread! Why are you still so bulky?”

“I can’t help how I’m built, sir.”

“Sure you can. Just get out there and take a few bullets. Your fat will gush out like a damn fountain! Here, come here. I need you to put a layer of cloth over this.”

Then I hear Kirza boots stepping on a metallic surface. The box.

“Good, good,” Maksim says. “Then you cover me, okay? We can’t let anyone see this. What even is this? A prosthetic arm? At least it’s more practical than that ring.”

So Dzyuba has already gotten the ring, and that glowing thing isn’t what I’m looking for. But a prosthetic arm? Like the Silver Vanguard’s T-6 that shoots out laser beams? What the heck is inside that vault?

If the arm is indeed a highly advance piece of weaponry, and the ring comes from the same batch, it’s potentially a weapon as well. Of course, Dzyuba has scooped it up.

Is this ring imbued with the blood of our Supreme Leader or something? Whatever this crap is, I’m not risking my life for it.

I’m just gonna stay hidden until they’re gone, then go back to tell her I couldn’t find the ring.

Maksim’s voice rises. “Hold on. Where are these footsteps from?”

Great. I forgot I have legs.

“Aren’t they ours?” Donkey replies.

“No, idiot! These are obviously not our foot sizes. Look at your own foot, dumbass!”

“Are they . . . the Commander’s?”

“We’ll have to ask him. Now, we’ll search the room as a precaution. Whoever was in here may still be in here.”

The fuck, man? Why do you care if someone else is here? Russians don’t stick their noses into other peoples’ business!

“The footsteps lead there,” Maksim says. “You go and have a look.”

Donkey’s answer is meek. “Okay . . .”

Donkey’s boots rustle in the snow as he approaches the machine. I can feel his presence getting stronger and stronger by the second. By the time the dude speaks up, he’s only a few meters away.

“Anyone. . . there?” His voice is full of hesitation which might’ve angered Maksim.

“Don’t ask them! Go check!”

Three meters.

I look behind me. I have nowhere else to hide.

Two meters.

I look to the sides. I have nowhere to run.

One meter.

I have only one choice. Kill both of them.

Murdering the commander’s confidant inside an abandoned warehouse full of secrets? That might not be the best course of action. But what other choice do I have? It’s not like they’re going to bring me home, feed me, and shelter me, like nourishing a kitten. Only I am foolish enough to do that.

I pull out my pistol.

Twenty centimeters.

As I’m about to charge, a loud bang erupts outside the fort.