The moment the steel shutters slammed down, the world shrank to a single corridor - long, narrow, and reeking of industrial disinfectant failing to mask something far fouler.
Sven skidded to a halt, soles scraping concrete. His daggers were already out, one in each hand, tips humming faintly from stored kinetic charge.
Opposite him, blocking the only path forward, were the Vilek brothers - mutants whose reputations in Russia's underbelly had spread like a bad rash.
The shorter one stepped forward first.
He was fat in the unflattering way that ignored symmetry - a belly that strained buttons, a neck that tried to eat his chin, and a face that looked like it had been sculpted by a drunk potter with resentment. His suit, once crisp, was now a wrinkled obituary for professionalism. Wisps of greasy hair clung to his scalp like dying grass.
He spat, and the saliva hissed as it hit the floor, eating a smoking divot into the concrete.
