Viktor pushed open the heavy tavern door, the rusty hinges groaning as he and his comrades slipped inside like shadows. Clad head to toe in their black Spetsnaz gear, they moved with the lethal grace of predators—silent, controlled, and unmistakably dangerous. The chatter in the room died instantly, eyes flickering toward them like sparks caught in a dark room. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken tension, as if the storm itself had stepped through the threshold.

But the crowd dared not look away.

Without a word, Viktor’s squad advanced to the bar, their boots thudding in a slow, deliberate rhythm against the creaking floorboards. Viktor’s sharp gaze met the bartender’s for a moment—a brief nod, as precise as a sniper’s breath—and then the drinks were placed down, glass against wood, the sound sharp in the quiet.

They hadn’t come to stir trouble, but trouble would know better than to find them unprepared.