January 10, 2030
Somewhere in the Russian Arctic
The Arctic wind howled above, a low mourning cry that sifted through glaciers and swept over the desolate tundra. Beneath it—deep beneath the frozen crust of Russia's northernmost edge—lay the base of operations for the O.Y.A. agents. No one would suspect it. A forgotten Soviet-era listening station repurposed into a labyrinthine bunker, encased in permafrost and shadows. Its hallways buzzed faintly with artificial warmth, the sound of generators echoing like distant drums.
They had made it out alive. Battered, bleeding, shaken—but alive.
Agent January walked the corridor with February, passing steel bulkheads and dim red lights. His thoughts raced, not from fear, but revelation. The face behind the silver mask. The impossible recognition. The mirrored eyes of a man who wasn't supposed to exist.
The debriefing room smelled of antiseptic and rust. Agent December was already inside with the rest of the agents, arms crossed behind his back, staring at a holographic map of Moscow's blast radius and neural signal flares. He didn't turn when the door hissed open.
"Close the door."
January obeyed.
December turned slowly, his eyes like blue fire under the fluorescents. "You disobeyed protocol."
"I followed the mission."
"No," December snapped, his voice suddenly cutting through the cold. "The mission was to expose the Black List. To dismantle them covertly. Not to assassinate Stroganov on a live feed and start a manhunt that now has half of Eastern Europe hunting us."
January met his stare without blinking. "It had to be done. He was the artery feeding them."
"You don't get to make that call alone."
February stepped into the room. She didn't speak at first, but the tension tightened visibly.
"He didn't act alone," she said. "I knew. I went along with it."
December shook his head, stepping back. "And you didn't think to tell command?"
"You would've stopped it."
"Damn right I would have."
Silence. Heavy. Loaded.
Then January stepped forward, reaching into his coat. He placed a cracked photo on the table—a black-and-white image of two children. Identical boys, standing in the snow, both wearing hospital gowns.
"I thought he died with the others. But that face..."
December stared at the photo. Slowly, recognition dawned, but it was laced with dread.
"Red Koschei," he said softly.
"His real name is Alexander," January replied. "My twin brother."
February looked between them, her voice low. "You never told us you had a brother."
"Because I didn't know where he was. Or maybe I chose to forget."
A ripple of shock passed through the room.
"When we were children," January continued, "we were taken by a Soviet biogenetic division operating under Stroganov. It was the genesis of the Red Koschei project. A program designed to build the perfect assassin. Superhuman strength. Intelligence. Advanced neural capacity. Pain tolerance beyond normal thresholds."
"They experimented on children?" December's voice was low, dark with disbelief.
"We were lab rats," January said. "Alexander—he responded well. Too well. His body adapted to the enhancements perfectly. I didn't. My results were… abnormal. I didn't gain his strength. Instead, I developed something different."
"Micro-expression mastery," September muttered. "Cognitive manipulation."
He looked up, eyes flinty. "Exactly. They called it a failure. But it was something else. Prediction. Manipulate perception. Read and influence behavior through micro-expressions. I became a weapon of the mind, not muscle."
February stepped closer. "Alexander doesn't recognize you?"
"If he does, he didn't show it. But he's been looking for me. That much I know."
December leaned against the wall, his voice now quieter. "Then why work for Black List? Why become their weapon?"
"Because they raised him. Trained him. Twisted him. If I hadn't escaped... maybe I'd be like him."
The room fell still.
Agent May leaned against the wall, arms crossed, sniper case still slung across her back. "So that thing out there… Red Koschei… is your brother?"
January nodded once.
"And you just let him walk?" July asked, skeptical.
"It wasn't letting," February answered. "We were outmatched. And if we killed him, we'd lose every chance of unraveling the real operation."
Agent March—stoic, grey-templed, with a glint of old-school intelligence—leaned on the edge of the table. "We need to think strategically. If the Black List still has active prototypes from Red Koschei, this may just be the beginning."
September frowned. "There's more than one?"
"Possibly," March said. "But right now, we focus on two things: decrypting what's left in the implant, and locating Red Koschei before he disappears again."
"No," December said firmly. "We stay low profile for now."
March's brow furrowed. "You can't be serious. We have the truth. We have the spark to ignite the whole system."
"And if we light that spark now, we'll burn with it," December snapped. "We need to observe how the world reacts to the leak. Let the storm settle. Then strike."
She pulled up a new location file—a secure facility buried in the wilderness of Northern Idaho, U.S.A.
"We'll transfer base to the American northwest. Remote. Off-grid. But close to key networks. We'll gather intel on America's role in the larger equation. If war is coming, it won't be born in Moscow. It'll be scripted in Washington."
Everyone looked at one another. Nobody objected. Not yet.
Outside, the Arctic wind howled across the barren landscape. Beneath it, the ghosts of the past slept restlessly.