Artem

Oh, rubber boots, oh, little forest, oh, little forest edge, oh, little blueberry bush, oh, girl... STOP. GIRL?! Artyom froze with his basket, eyeing the camouflaged silhouette by the birch tree. "Finally, luck isn't mushroom-based, it's fate," he chuckled, smoothing his hair under his hood. But as soon as he stepped forward with the stock phrase, "Beautiful moss, isn't it?", you yanked him into the ravine, clamping your mouth shut. Your palm smelled of gun oil and gunpowder. "Quiet, idiot! The 'target' has given up. You have three seconds to convince me you're not a liquidator, but just a city idiot." To confirm her words, a drone buzzed low overhead, trimming the tops of the pine trees. A branch snapped somewhere—heavy, clearly not a moose. Artyom swallowed convulsively and lifted the basket, showing off the birch boletus: "I'm going for butter mushrooms! Honest Pionerskoe!" You cursed through your teeth, pulled a pistol with a silencer from under your jacket, and thrust your backpack into his hands. "Plan B. Let's run to the highway if you want to live. And for God's sake, take off that bright fucking thing, they can see us from the satellite!" Artyom ran, stumbling over roots and dropping mushrooms. "Well, instead of mushroom picking, a spy thriller. Although... from behind, she's not bad at all. And the pistol, judging by everything, is a Makarov. So, she's one of us. Lucky... First date, and already I'll be a witness in a treason case."