The cold hit first.
Not dramatic.
Just sharp enough to sting my lungs when I stepped out.
Junseo pulled his jacket tighter around himself. "Yeah…" he muttered. "This place hates people."
The air smelled wrong.
Metal. Fuel. Snow that hadn't fallen yet but felt close enough to taste.
Men moved around us like we were already assigned roles. No introductions. No greetings. Just hands pointing, heads tilting, bodies shifting to guide us where we were meant to stand.
"Stay close," I said.
Junseo nodded without looking at me.
A black SUV waited near the edge of the runway, engine already running. The windows were dark enough to hide anything—or anyone—inside.
Peter leaned against the open door like this was routine. Like airports and private jets and silent men weren't something special.
"Welcome to Russia," he said. "Don't get comfortable."
Orina scanned the surroundings, eyes sharp, cataloguing exits and angles without pausing. Gu Wen adjusted his gloves slowly, deliberately, like he was grounding himself before a long task.
Borislav spoke quietly into his phone in a language I didn't recognize. His voice stayed even, controlled—but his jaw was tight.
Then Miran arrived.
He didn't hurry. Didn't acknowledge anyone. He opened the SUV door himself and sat down like the seat belonged to him, one arm draped lazily over the side, eyes half-lidded.
"This is going to be interesting," he said.
I met his gaze for a second.
Didn't smile.
We got in.
The doors shut, sealing the world outside. The engine deepened, and the SUV began to move.
Streetlights stretched into white streaks as we passed. Snow rested on rooftops like it had always been there—too clean, too untouched. The city felt quiet in a way that wasn't peaceful.
Junseo leaned closer. "How long are we staying?"
"As long as it takes," I said.
He didn't ask anything else.
That was when I realized how much trust he'd placed in me. More than I deserved. More than I could afford to break.
The SUV turned sharply.
Somewhere between the airport and the city, my phone buzzed once.
Unknown number.
One message.
Once you cross this line, there's no return.
I locked the screen.
Russia didn't feel cold anymore.
It felt watched.
The building matched the city's mood.
Abandoned.
Concrete walls stained by age and neglect. Windows sealed shut. No signs. No names. Just a structure forgotten so thoroughly it felt intentional.
We went underground.
The stairs were narrow, each step echoing too loudly in the enclosed space. The deeper we went, the heavier the air became—thick with old concrete and something metallic beneath it.
They handed us keys.
No explanations.
The rooms were small. Tight. Designed to hold a body, not a life.
One bed. One wall light. No windows.
I dropped my bag near the door and sat on the edge of the bed. Then leaned back, arms stretched behind me, staring up at the ceiling as the light hummed softly.
Junseo was in another room.
That bothered me more than the walls.
This place enforced discipline without speaking. Everything felt measured—how long you could rest, how deeply you could breathe. Even stillness felt regulated.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Not sleep. Just enough quiet to steady myself.
It didn't last.
A knock cracked through the corridor. Sharp. Final.
Orders followed immediately.
"Main hall. Five minutes."
I stood.
Straightened my jacket.
Whatever this was—
It had begun.
The main hall erased every expectation I had left.
The doors slid open without a sound, and for a second my mind stalled, trying to understand the scale of it.
Wide.
Too wide to exist beneath an abandoned building.
The ceiling rose high above us, layered with recessed lighting that adjusted automatically as we stepped inside—brightening just enough to reveal the space without warmth. The floor was matte black, seamless, marked with thin white lines that didn't look decorative.
Measured.
Calculated.
People were already there.
Too many to count at a glance.
Men and women stood in loose clusters—some stretching, some silent, some pretending not to watch each other. Different builds. Different ages. Different accents whispered under breath.
All of them tense.
Junseo slowed beside me. "That many?"
I didn't answer.
Screens lined one entire wall from floor to ceiling. Dark glass for now, reflecting our shapes back at us. Cameras were embedded everywhere—subtle enough to miss at first.
But once you noticed one—
You noticed all of them.
This wasn't a meeting place.
It was a selection ground.
Orina moved ahead without hesitation, already choosing her position. Peter followed, relaxed but alert. Gu Wen drifted toward a terminal, eyes lighting up as if the technology itself had called to him.
Borislav's voice cut cleanly through the low murmur.
"Form up."
No microphone. No raised voice.
Still, the room obeyed.
People shifted instinctively, feet aligning with faintly glowing lines on the floor. No questions. No resistance.
Junseo leaned closer. "Hyung… this feels like school."
I watched a man two rows ahead wipe his palms on his pants for the third time.
"It's not," I said quietly.
Borislav stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back.
"You are here," he said, "because each of you was identified as useful."
Not talented.
Not exceptional.
Useful.
"This is not training," he continued. "It is preparation. There is a difference."
The screens behind him came alive.
Blueprints.
Layouts.
Corridors unfolding in clean white lines against black—vaults, access points, choke zones.
A real place.
Copied.
My chest tightened.
Junseo inhaled sharply.
"This exists," Borislav said calmly. "Your task is to learn it better than the people who built it."
He paused.
"Some of you will fail."
No threat. No emphasis.
"If you fail," he added, "you will leave.
Quietly."
I noticed then—
The number of people in the hall didn't match the number of names flashing briefly across the screens.
Some were already gone.
Miran stood near the back, arms crossed.
Watching me.
His gaze didn't linger, but when it moved away, it felt like pressure easing from my lungs.
Junseo swallowed.
The lights shifted—brighter. Sharper.
Borislav turned slightly.
"Welcome," he said, "to rehearsal."
The doors behind us sealed shut.
And for the first time since arriving in Russia.
I understood.
This wasn't about whether we could do the job.
It was about who would still be standing when it was time to leave.