The snow hadn't stopped falling in three days.
It covered everything — the roads, the rooftops, the old tram lines that crisscrossed the city like scars. Tarkov looked calm from a distance, almost beautiful, the way winter disguised the decay. But if you looked closer, you could see the truth: armored trucks on every corner, soldiers posted at intersections, and people standing in long lines that never seemed to move.
Alexei Morozov pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as he stepped out of the dormitory. The air was sharp, biting. His breath came out in pale clouds that drifted upward and vanished. Around him, students shuffled through the snow with hunched shoulders and tired eyes, heading to classes no one cared about anymore.
The university hadn't officially closed yet, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time.
Alex's phone buzzed in his pocket — another government alert:
"Curfew reminder. All civilians must remain indoors after 21:00. Unauthorized movement will be penalized."
He swiped it away without reading the rest. The alerts had become background noise, like the sirens that wailed somewhere across the river every night.
He made his way down the cracked sidewalk toward the tram station, snow crunching under his boots. His destination was the supply depot near the industrial district — his part-time job. He fixed broken radios and communications gear for extra cash. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid for food and textbooks.
And lately, the depot had become one of the few places in Tarkov that still felt… alive.
The depot was an old warehouse tucked between the rail yard and a chain-link fence that led to the military checkpoint. Smoke curled from a steel chimney, and the muffled sound of hammers echoed inside.
Alex pushed open the door, the smell of oil and gunpowder hitting him instantly.
"Morning, kid," a rough voice called out.
Prapor stood near the workbench, his sleeves rolled up, cleaning the bolt of an old rifle. His uniform was faded Russian military — no insignia, no rank. Just a man who'd seen more winters than he cared to count.
"Morning," Alex replied, hanging his coat. "Got the new circuit boards from the university lab. Should be enough to fix the comms relay."
Prapor grunted. "Good. Those USEC bastards fried half the radio grid last week testing their toys. Now we're blind again."
Alex hesitated. "You really think there's going to be a war?"
"There already is," Prapor said flatly, sliding the bolt back into place with a metallic click. "You just haven't realized which side you're on yet."
Alex didn't know how to respond. He turned to his workstation, the familiar hum of the soldering iron grounding him. Sparks flickered as he started repairing the relay.
For a while, neither spoke. The only sounds were the hiss of metal, the soft buzz of old fluorescent lights, and the distant thud of artillery drills from the other side of the city.
Finally, Prapor broke the silence. "You still studying computers, right? Networking?"
"Yeah," Alex said. "Almost finished with my degree, if the university doesn't shut down first."
"Good. Keep learning. Wires and signals are the new bullets, kid. Everyone's fighting for control of information. Not just land anymore."
Alex smiled faintly. "You sound like my professor."
Prapor chuckled — a low, tired sound. "Maybe your professor's not as stupid as most."
By noon, Alex had finished the repairs. He wiped the grease off his hands, packed his tools, and stepped outside to grab some air.
The sky above Tarkov was gray and heavy. Across the street, a convoy of black armored trucks rolled past, each bearing the white insignia of TerraGroup. Security contractors — USEC — stood on the back, faces hidden behind tinted visors. Locals stopped to watch, their expressions a mix of fear and anger.
One of the USEC men turned his head toward the crowd. His hand rested casually on his rifle. The message was clear: Keep moving.
Alex felt a chill crawl down his spine. He turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets.
He met his friends later at the campus café — one of the few places still open.
"Did you hear?" Mikhail asked, leaning forward. "They're saying another district's been sealed off. Military won't let anyone through."
"That's the third one this month," Lena said quietly, stirring her tea. "My cousin tried to leave for Norvinsk yesterday. He never made it past the checkpoint."
Alex frowned. "They're saying it's for safety. Containment or something."
Mikhail snorted. "Containment of what? A virus? Terrorists? Come on, man. Everyone knows it's TerraGroup. They're hiding something big."
Lena's voice dropped to a whisper. "My neighbor works at the hospital. She said people are showing up with radiation burns. No one's allowed to talk about it."
The three of them fell silent. Outside, a loudspeaker crackled to life, blaring another curfew announcement. Soldiers walked past the windows, rifles slung, faces hard.
For a moment, the café felt too small. Too quiet.
Alex glanced at his friends — faces pale, eyes tired. He forced a small smile. "Let's just… get through exams first, yeah? Maybe things will calm down."
Mikhail laughed without humor. "You still think this ends peacefully?"
"I have to," Alex said softly. "Otherwise… what's the point?"
That night, the city changed.
It started with a blackout. One moment the streetlights were on, glowing through the snowfall — the next, the entire city went dark. Every window, every billboard, every building swallowed by shadow.
Alex was in his dorm, staring at his laptop screen when it happened. The sudden silence was deafening — no traffic, no hum of electricity, no background noise at all. Just stillness.
Then came the first explosion.
The blast echoed from the port district, shaking the glass panes. He ran to the window and looked out. In the distance, a column of fire rose into the sky. Alarms began to wail across the city.
Down below, students were shouting, some running toward the exits, others calling on dead phones. The power grid was gone. The internet connection dropped.
Alex's heart pounded. He grabbed his jacket and rushed outside.
Sirens screamed across Tarkov now — overlapping, urgent. Somewhere near the river, heavy gunfire broke out, followed by more explosions. The sound wasn't like the training drills anymore. This was real.
He stopped at the edge of the dorm courtyard, breath visible in the cold air.
Above the rooftops, tracer fire lit the night sky — streaks of red and white cutting through the darkness like shooting stars. The snow turned orange under the glow of distant flames.
Someone screamed nearby. A car alarm wailed, then abruptly stopped.
Alex stood there, frozen, unable to move. He could taste metal on his tongue — fear and adrenaline mixing.
A loudspeaker cracked through the chaos:
"Attention, citizens of Tarkov. Martial law has been declared. Stay indoors. Evacuation is suspended. Repeat — evacuation is suspended."
His phone buzzed again — no signal.
The message repeated, distorted and broken. Then the power surged back for a brief second. The neon sign of the café flickered to life across the street — half the letters burned out, the rest blinking.
"Welcome to Tarkov."
The lights died again.
Alex lowered his head, the realization sinking in like ice.
Whatever was happening — whatever they'd been afraid of — was here now.
He turned back toward the dorms as a second explosion lit up the sky, brighter and closer. The shockwave hit seconds later, rattling the windows and setting off every alarm in the district.
And in that blinding flash of light, Alex knew:
Tarkov had stopped being a city.
It had become a trap.