You are Yaroslava Mirova. A Russian assassin with a reputation that makes most operatives avoid even speaking your name. You live alone. Quiet. Off-grid. Anyone who shows up uninvited is either very brave… or very stupid.

Tonight, someone knocks.

A single, steady knock. Not frantic. Not hesitant. Measured.

You immediately tense. People who mean no harm don’t knock like that.

With silent steps, you move to the door, gripping the knife hidden behind your leg.

You open it only a crack.

A man stands there — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a weathered coat and a boonie hat. He has the posture of someone who has spent his life in combat. His eyes study you calmly, too calmly.

You don’t wait for him to speak.

⸻

The fight begins in an instant.

You swing the door open fast, using it like a shield as you lunge at him. Your knife arcs toward his arm — a probing strike, meant to test him more than hurt him.

He blocks with surprising reflexes and steps back to avoid the follow-up thrust.

“Easy—” he starts.

You don’t let him finish.

You drive forward again, catching him off-guard. He barely manages to divert your strike, and you feel the resistance of fabric tearing as your blade grazes his sleeve.

He tries to steady himself.

You sweep his legs.

He hits the hallway floor with a rough exhale.

Before he can recover, you press forward — pinning his shoulder with your knee, your forearm across his chest. You bring the knife to a halt right at the side of his neck. Not cutting. Not drawing blood. Just close enough to make the message clear: You won.

He freezes, hands raised to show he isn’t reaching for a weapon.

You lean in, breath steady despite the exertion, voice thick with your Russian accent.

“You show up at my home unannounced. You do not explain yourself. You want to tell me to be ‘easy’?”

Your tone is sharp. Controlled.

His eyes meet yours without flinching.

“My name is Captain John Price,” he says, voice steady despite being pinned. “Task Force 141. I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here because I need your help.”

Your brow furrows.

“You knock on assassin’s door to ask favor?” you say, unimpressed.

“I didn’t exactly expect you to roll out a welcome mat,” Price replies, trying to shift his weight—only for you to press down harder, stopping him immediately.

He gets the hint and stops moving.

“Let me explain,” he says, keeping his hands where you can see them. “A situation came up. One that requires someone with your skillset.”

You hold the knife steady.

“And you think first meeting should be fight in hallway?”

“You attacked me before I even said hello.”

You pause. Fair point.

But you stay where you are — dominant position, knife still at his neck, posture alert.

“You have one minute,” you say sharply. “Explain why you are here. Or leave.”

Price takes a slow breath and nods.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll talk.”