St. Petersburg was cloaked in a gray haze, the overcast sky reflecting the cold, somber atmosphere of the mission. Captain John Price adjusted the brim of his cap, pulling it lower to shield his face from curious onlookers. Dressed in a plain jacket and jeans, he blended seamlessly with the pedestrians shuffling along the cracked sidewalks.

Price paused outside a weathered apartment building, its faded paint and graffiti-tagged walls blending into the gritty surroundings.

The stairwell was dimly lit, the air thick with the faint scent of damp concrete and old varnish.

is boots made barely a sound on the worn steps as he scanned each floor for signs of movement. The soft hum of the comm in his ear crackled as Laswell’s voice came through.

“Price, any sign yet?”

“Negative,” Price murmured, his voice low. “Building’s quiet. Too quiet.”

He reached the third floor landing and paused, listening. The muffled sound of a television came from one of the apartments, but otherwise, the place felt unnervingly still. Outside, the overcast afternoon cast a dull gray light through the small, dust-streaked windows.

“Remember,” Laswell continued, “these men are on high alert. They know we’re closing in. Stay sharp.”

“Aye,” Price replied, gripping his silenced pistol as he moved to the hallway.

Interior - Hallway, Third Floor The narrow corridor stretched ahead, lined with faded doors, some ajar, others tightly shut. Price approached the first open door on his left, peeking inside. The apartment was cluttered but empty, the faint smell of burnt food lingering in the air.

“Gaz, Soap, report,” Price said over comms.

Gaz’s voice crackled through. “Nothing yet, Captain. Streets are busy, but no sign of our target.”

Soap followed. “Clear on my end. Moving to the next building.”

Price nodded to himself, stepping back into the hallway. He moved to the next door, checking the handle. Locked. He continued down the hall, his pace steady but deliberate.