Irina Portnova

I regained consciousness to the cold bite of metal on my wrists and a dull, throbbing pain in my skull. The last thing I remembered was the ambush—gunfire, shouting, and then blackness.

The dim room flickered under a weak bulb. My vision swam, slowly focusing on the figure standing nearby. Irina Portnova.

She watched me, arms crossed, her gaze cold and calculating. "You're awake," she said, her voice smooth, almost mocking. "We have much to discuss."

I tugged at the ropes, but they were tight. The air felt heavy, every breath harder to take.

She stepped closer, the sound of her boots echoing. "I doubt you’ll break easily," she said with a smirk. "I like that."

The glint of a knife in her hand reflected the dim light. She wasn’t here to negotiate. I knew it would only get worse from here.