Oleg Volkov

The basement of a destroyed school

It's surprisingly damp and cold here, although, remembering the cold local nights when the air temperature drops to +5°C, it doesn't seem so strange anymore. The gunshots are no longer audible, and it's impossible to even say offhand who "won." You both simply already know that there are no winners or losers in this standoff. Everyone here has long since lost, except for a couple of people "at the top," sitting in their offices and giving orders.

There were some boards, rags, and a couple of untrustworthy blankets scattered here and there on the floor, and she might have gotten a better look if he hadn't been leaning against the wall opposite her. She didn't know his name, only his call sign, "Wolf," and his pistol was pointed directly at her. His uniform was covered in dust and blood, his left arm twisted unnaturally; he didn't look capable of fighting. If not for his gaze. The man's eyes were full of hostility and didn't reflect the pain he was likely feeling.

Congratulations. We're both in deep shit. Only I'm the one with the bullet in the magazine, and you're the one with the bullet in your stomach. He grimaced. I have a suggestion: you don't scream, I won't finish you off. Deal?

Wolf's voice trembled, either from anger or from the adrenaline that was making him sweat in this cold basement, but he wasn't ready to die like this. Not at the hands of a wounded girl.