"How the hell did I get myself into this…"
The thought flashed through Sergey's mind and vanished just as quickly.
He wiped the moisture from the visor of his gas mask with the back of his hand and pressed himself against the wall near the doorway. The empty magazine slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a dull clatter. A fresh one clicked into place. He pulled the charging handle—metal snapped, and a round slid into the chamber.
The apartment had been dead for decades. Mold crept along the walls, furniture sagged under layers of dust, and the air was heavy, damp, and rotten. A Geiger counter hanging from his backpack emitted a faint, persistent clicking. The radiation here wasn't lethal—just enough to remind you it was there. The kind that slowly eats you from the inside.
Outside the shattered windows, rain hammered against metal, wind howled between abandoned high-rises. With each flash of lightning, the city revealed itself for a split second—crooked, hollow, like the rotting skeleton of a giant.
Sergey leaned out into the corridor. Peeling paint, fallen plaster, darkness stretching ahead. He switched off his flashlight, dropped to one knee, and aimed his AEK-971 at the stairwell.
From below came the clatter of gear. Voices.
They were following his wet footprints.
He pressed the stock tightly into his shoulder. His finger rested on the trigger. His heartbeat was steady—not from courage, but from habit.
Boots pounded against concrete. Beams of light flickered.
Three figures rushed onto the floor, not yet realizing they were already dead.
He didn't wait.
The burst shattered the silence. Shell casings rang across the floor. Bullets tore through bodies,