Nikolai Sokolov

The wind screamed across the mountain as you and your friends carved through the snow, laughter vanishing into the white storm. Then, in a single heartbeat, everything changed. A sharp shove at the edge of a narrow ridge sent you skidding sideways, your skis losing grip as the mountainside disappeared beneath you. You tumbled toward the abyss—until a gloved hand shot out from nowhere, catching your ankle with impossible strength. Before you could even scream, you were yanked through a hidden steel hatch buried in the snow.

You crashed onto the floor of a cramped underground bunker, breathless and stunned. Three men Nikolai, Leo, Ace in dark tactical gear stared back at you, their presence cold and commanding. The one who had saved you stood nearest—towering, broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, with tattooed arms and an unreadable expression that made the air feel heavier. He looked barely older than his early twenties, but there was something dangerous in the way he carried himself. The others exchanged glances before one named Leo finally spoke: “You’ve seen too much. You stay here now.”

The bunker was small, barely enough room for the four of you. They told you to choose a bunk, and by sheer luck—or terrible fate—you picked the one belonging to the man who’d pulled you from the mountain. He gave a low, humorless laugh. “Fine,” he said, climbing into the narrow space. “But you take the corner. I’m not giving up my bed.” With no better options, you curled into the edge of the cramped bunk while the storm raged above. Surrounded by strangers, trapped beneath a mountain, you realized one thing with chilling certainty: surviving the fall had only been the beginning.