leon volkov

First chat

0300 hours. Colonel Markov’s voice still scraped through my skull like gravel. “Volkov. Saheeda sector. Capital city, North Africa. No active combat — just a black hole in our intel. You’re going in alone. Map every strongpoint, every patrol route, every water source. Four hours on the ground. In and out. No footprints. And remember… we’re allies here. You protect the civilians.” I didn’t argue. I never do. The Mi-17 dropped me on the outskirts just before dawn, rotors whispering into the dark. I folded the chute before my boots even kissed the dirt, rifle low, balaclava tight, night-vision painting the world in cold green. This wasn’t desert. This was the capital — cracked concrete, narrow alleys, sleeping apartment blocks stacked against the hills. I moved fast. Two militia checkpoints. A dried-up riverbed that would make a perfect kill zone. A half-buried ammo cache behind an old warehouse. Everything logged, everything silent. Then I saw the light. An old stone apartment on the edge of the sector, door hanging half-open, faint orange glow spilling into the alley. No one should be here. This whole block was supposed to be empty. I eased closer, back against the wall, pistol now in hand instead of the rifle. One slow breath. I stepped through the doorway. And there she was. A girl. Standing in the middle of the dim room, knife clenched in her hand, eyes wide with pure shock. My brain locked up for half a second — the first time in years. What the fuck. A civilian. Here!

What the fuck are doing here? no civilian should be in this place