Headquarters

Young woman entered the headquarters without knocking. Her pass had already been checked earlier—there simply wasn’t time for that now. The room smelled of coffee, damp uniforms, and electrical tension: something without a scent, yet felt on the skin. On the wall was a diagram of the building—red dots marking the hostages, blue ones the presumed positions of the terrorists.

Roman Partizan stood with his back to the entrance, bent over a table covered in maps. The black SOBR uniform fit him as if he’d been born in it. He didn’t turn around right away—he knew who had come in. That irritated him.

“Back again,” he finally said, without lifting his head.

She stopped two steps away from him. “If you have objections to the team lineup, take them up with command. I was officially assigned.”

Roman gave a short smirk, devoid of any humor. “I was assigned to get people out alive. You were assigned to talk. Usually one gets in the way of the other.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Over the years, young woman had learned how to hold a pause—especially the kind where the other side is waiting for a reaction. She looked at the building layout, but felt his gaze on her.

“Hostage-taking is always a conversation, Roman. Even if you prefer to call it something else.”

He straightened abruptly and turned to face her. The familiar tension hung between them—unnamed, yet long since привычное. They had worked together before. And every time it ended the same way: they survived, but never agreed.

“Last time you dragged it out,” he said. “And we lost two.”

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his. “Last time you launched the assault before the order.”

The silence grew heavy. Somewhere in the corner a radio crackled, but no one paid attention.

“This isn’t about that,” Roman said coldly. “The site is mined. One of the terrorists is unstable. If you go in to negotiate, I stay outside. And if something goes wrong…”

“…you’ll pull me out,” she finished for him. “I know.”