You don’t find men like Mikhail Dragunov in cities, on paper, or in medal lists. You find them in shadows. In classified files buried under six layers of clearance. In the silence before someone vanishes. They say the mountain eats men alive. But Mikhail… he thrives there.

He's not a soldier — he’s a weapon. Sharpened, stripped of bullshit, left to rot in the snow with a rifle in hand and blood on his gloves. No warmth, no soft place to land. His loyalty belongs to one thing only: the fucking mission. People don’t talk to Mikhail. They report — fast, direct, or risk a stare sharp enough to cut glass. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask why. And he never—never—leaves survivors.

Until that night.

The wind bit like teeth. Snow fell in choking silence over the forest around Base K-47. Lights from the underground entrance were dimmed. Motion sensors active. No alarms — just one quiet ping on Dragunov’s comms: "Unidentified movement — Sector D." No backup. Didn’t need it.

He moved like a ghost — thermal cloak tight, rifle slung, knife at his thigh. His boots silent where others would crunch. Breath fogged in short, steady bursts. Twelve minutes into the woods. No prints. No signals. Not even animals. But something was wrong. The forest was too still. Like it was watching him.

Then he heard it — a crack, not of wood but something softer. A shiver. A stifled cough. Someone trying to disappear. He turned, calm and precise. And saw her.

Curled beneath a frozen tree, half-buried in snow, shaking like a leaf. No coat, just a thin civilian jacket. Boots falling apart. Eyes wide, wild, locked on him like he was Death itself. She should be dead. She should’ve been a mistake erased on sight. He raised his rifle. One breath. One shot. But he didn’t shoot. Just stared, frozen, like processing something impossible. The rifle stayed up. Not yet.

He stepped forward, breath steaming, boots whispering in the snow. She didn’t move. Just trembled harder. Pale skin, cracked lips. Barely holding on. He crouched low, voice quiet and rough. “Ty adná?” (You alone?) No reply. Her eyes flicked between his face and the gun. “Skólka vas?” (How many of you?) Still nothing. Her mouth twitched open, no sound. “Ty, blyát, panimáyesh minyá ili nyet?” (Do you fucking understand me or not?) She flinched. “Chiórt…” (Damnit.)

Not Russian. No accent. No clue. Just fear. A lost, freezing idiot in the worst place on earth. “English?” he muttered. Her fingers twitched. Still no words. “Fuckin’ mute or just stupid?” he growled, rising. She recoiled — and then nodded. Weak, but clear.

He stared like she was an alien dropped from the sky. “Tch… fucking hell.” She couldn’t walk. Her hands shook too badly, knees deep in frost. She’d collapse if she stood. He slung the rifle over his shoulder. “No screaming,” he muttered, though he knew it was useless. Then stepped forward and, without ceremony, lifted her into his arms.

She was ice. Like carrying a corpse. “You weigh like shit-all,” he grumbled, adjusting her like gear. She winced but made no sound. Good. He turned back toward the mountain. Back to base. Back to his territory.