79. Frequency

Spectre's Safehouse, Warsaw - 08:12

I woke slowly, with that strange awareness that time had passed—but not how much, or where I was exactly. My head felt heavier than usual, like the air in the room had thickened while I slept. The kind of dense, still quiet you only got in underground bunkers. No windows. No weather. Just the low hum of electricity and breath.

My side tugged as I shifted, the line of stitches reminding me they existed with every micro-movement. Not sharp, but sore. The ache was familiar by now, dull but constant—like a small stone wedged under skin.

I blinked up at the ceiling. Pale concrete. A familiar scuff mark near the hanging light.

Spectre's room.

Right. Still here. Still in his bed.

Fucking brilliant.

I rolled onto my back and let out a breath through my nose, slow and measured. The pillow still smelled like him—gun oil, winter air, and that faint trace of clove soap I'd never admit I liked. The blanket had bunched at my waist, and my shirt had ridden up slightly in the night, exposing the bruises starting to yellow across my stomach.

Everything felt... quiet. A little too quiet. No gunfire. No comms chatter. Just the sterile thrum of artificial light and distant plumbing.

I sat up with a grunt, tugged my shirt down, and rubbed a hand over my face.

Outside the room, something clinked.

A utensil?

And then came the voice. That awful, familiar, terrible voice that meant trouble.

"Ah! Good morning, Ninochka."

I winced. Not from the volume—he wasn't even being loud—but from the tone. That smugness could be heard through several layers of concrete. He sounded far too pleased with himself.

"You're alive," Koldun called cheerfully from the kitchenette across the hall. "Is miracle."

I groaned and shoved the blanket off. "Barely."

"Oh-ho," he laughed, voice echoing back through the open door, "but you slept very well. In his bed, no less."

I padded out barefoot, stretching an arm across my shoulder, trying to loosen the tightness. "You left me no choice."

Koldun was sitting at the tiny, beat-up metal table, nursing a chipped mug that probably used to be white before the caffeine abuse. His long legs were kicked out in front of him, ankles crossed, a glint in his eye that said I have been waiting hours for you to wake up so I could be a menace.

He gestured grandly toward the mug already set for me across from him. "For you. Coffee. Strong enough to wake dead soldiers."

I slid into the seat, noting the telltale smell of instant granules and old chicory. Still, I took a sip. It burned a path down my throat—but it helped.

Koldun leaned forward on his elbows, wagging his eyebrows. "So. Tell me—did you dream of him?"

I blinked. "Of who?"

"Lover-boy." He smirked like the devil himself.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He grinned wider. "Spectre will never shut up when I tell him. Will think he is a king. May start war just to brag about it."

I exhaled through my nose, pinched the bridge of it with my fingers, and muttered, "You're the worst."

"He will frame the hallway footage," Koldun continued, utterly undeterred. "Hang it in his bedroom. Maybe tattoo it on his chest."

I nearly choked on my coffee.

He just beamed, entirely too satisfied with himself.

"You know what?" I said, setting down the mug. "I'm too tired for this."

"You are hungover," he corrected. "Is not same. This is your punishment for being weak to vodka."

"You're the one who poured half the bottle into a thermos and called it a war ration."

"Exactly," he said proudly. "I am a great commander."

I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile. It was impossible not to smile. Bastard.

"Besides," he added casually, "you pine for Skull Man... and yet, you sleep in Spectre's bed. You are a complicated woman."

I didn't respond. I just reached across the table, picked up the metal spoon from beside my mug, and lobbed it at his head.

Koldun caught it mid-air with one hand.

Then, deadpan, he stood, turned sharply, and saluted with the spoon like it was a saber.

"Commander accepts this gift with great honor," he intoned. "Will use it to lead troops into glorious spoon-based victory."

I lost it.

Laughed hard, stomach cramping, coffee nearly coming out of my nose. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't even safe, considering the stitches. But damn, it felt good. The sound echoed through the kitchen, bounced off the bunker walls like it didn't belong there—but I didn't care.

Koldun grinned as he sat back down. "See? Is better than sadness."

"Are you always like this in the morning?"

"Only when I like someone," he said, taking a sip of his own mug. "You get the worst of it. Is compliment."

"Somehow I feel insulted."

"You should. Is tradition."

The warmth in my chest wasn't from the coffee.

It had been a long time since I'd had this. Not just laughter—real, stupid, belly-aching laughter—but the ease of company that didn't require performance. No mask. No rank. No caution. Just banter and caffeine and a man who wasn't trying to fix me, just give me hell because he knew I could take it.

I leaned back in the chair and let the moment sit. Let the light catch the steam off the coffee. Let the air buzz just faintly from the power grid overhead.

We still had twenty-four hours to go.

But maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't all be unbearable.

Spectre's Safehouse, Warsaw - 10:04

I didn't mean to linger after breakfast.

The coffee had helped—mostly. It chased the cobwebs out from behind my eyes and dulled the throbbing pulse at the back of my skull. My side still ached, a soft tug behind every breath, but manageable. Koldun had even offered to re-check the stitches, but I'd waved him off, and he didn't push.

Instead, he poured us both another mug, sat cross-legged on the bench like some smug Siberian goblin, and proceeded to roast me for every second I'd spent in Spectre's bed.

"Was it soft?" he asked, tapping the rim of his mug with a spoon. "You dream of him while drooling on his pillow?"

"I will stab you with that spoon." I muttered.

He held it up like a trophy. "Spectre will weep with joy. 'She slept in my bed, Koldun. In my bed.' He'll be unbearable."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Mine, of course," he said proudly. "I am Cupid now."

I threw a dish towel at his face.

And that should've been it. Should've been the end of it—just morning haze and caffeine and banter.

But then my eyes had flicked toward the secure terminal tucked into the comms alcove behind the kitchen. The signal light blinked, soft and steady. Active. Waiting.

And I thought—just for a second—what harm could it do?

Just to hear them.

Just to know.

I rose quietly and crossed the concrete floor, careful not to pull at my side as I moved. Koldun didn't follow. He just watched, still perched on the bench, mug resting on one thigh, expression unreadable.

The tech station wasn't much. A single folding chair. A stripped-down rig with a dual-channel receiver, a tangle of headset cables, and a cracked touchscreen set into the console. The interface blinked with familiar prompts.

141 SECURE.

WOLVES TACTICAL.

I slipped the headset on—carefully, gently, like it might break the moment I breathed too loud.

My fingers hovered above the console, then tapped the first line.

141 SECURE - ACTIVE.

The static bled in first—low, white, familiar. Like old war tapes. Then—

"—Left side's still exposed. Soap, shift north. I want eyes on the secondary stairwell."

Ghost.

I froze.

The voice hit like a punch to the ribs. Not loud. Not emotional. Just clipped. Precise. Pure Ghost. But it caught me off guard anyway.

I closed my eyes, letting the sound settle into my spine.

"Movement—northeast corner," he continued. "Keep spacing tight. No lone heroics."

There was a pause, then Soap's voice, thick and breathless:

"Copy, LT. Moving now."

Then Gaz, a little calmer: "Visual on civvies. Two, maybe three. Unarmed. Holding position."

"Price, you readin'?" Ghost again.

Crackle. Then the captain's rumble, smooth and grounded: "I see them. Push through, but watch the balcony. It's exposed."

I breathed in slowly.

There was gunfire in the background. Distant, scattered. Radio squelch. A door kicked in. Soap cursing under his breath, Scottish vowels tangled around the sound of boots on tile.

But I didn't hear panic. I didn't hear blood. Just the mission.

I leaned forward in the chair, hands resting lightly against the desk, and let the voices wash over me. I didn't say a word. Didn't key the mic. I was just—there. A silent ghost in the line.

Ghost was calm. He always was. But hearing him now—alive, sharp, present—did something to my lungs. They stopped feeling so tight. So small. My fingers loosened on the desk edge.

He was out there. In control. Breathing the same air.

I hadn't realized how much I'd missed his voice.

After five minutes, the feed shifted into silence—clearing comms for movement.

I didn't want to disconnect.

But my hand moved anyway, switching channels.

WOLVES TACTICAL - ACTIVE.

A sharper burst of static cut through. More encrypted. Dirtier frequency. The Black Wolves never did play clean.

Then—

"Zakhodim s leva." Coming in from the left.

My chest seized.

Spectre.

His voice sounded the same—low, hard-edged, tinged with that particular Russian lilt that only got stronger when he was operating. Not barking orders, not yelling—just cold, absolute instruction. The kind that said if you didn't obey, you'd better write your will.

Another pause.

"Ogon' tol'ko po komande." Fire only on my command.

I squeezed the headset tighter.

There was background noise—boots scraping rubble, someone breathing hard into a comm, the grind of concrete under armor—but no panic. Not from him.

He sounded alive. Controlled. He always did. Even back then. Even in the worst days, when Chistilishe was falling apart around us.

"Kryshuyte drug druga." Cover each other.

He hadn't changed. Not really. Not where it counted.

More static. Then a younger voice—probably one of his new Wolves—answering in Russian. Too fast for me to catch, but Spectre replied:

"Ne povtoryay moyu oshibku." Don't repeat my mistake.

My breath hitched. He didn't elaborate, didn't have to.

I reached up and touched the headset's edge, like I could anchor myself in his voice.

God, I wanted to talk to him.

Just once. Even if it was only to say—You're still alive. You're still you.

But I didn't.

I stayed silent, just listened, grounded myself in the two men who'd mattered more than anything else in my life—who, between them, had broken and rebuilt me a dozen times over.

Simon, my anchor. Mikhail, my origin. Two specters in the airwaves. And me, caught in between.

I didn't know how long I sat there. Five minutes? Ten? Time got slippery. I might've stayed there all day if a shadow hadn't shifted in the corner of my vision.

I looked up.

Koldun stood in the doorway now, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His arms were crossed, mug long empty, face unreadable—but not mocking. He didn't speak at first, just waited.

Then, gently: "Nice to hear them, da?"

I blinked. My throat was dry. "Yeah."

He nodded once, slow. "Alive. Still yelling. That's good."

A long pause stretched between us. I didn't fill it. Neither did he.

Then, a glint of mischief sparked behind his eyes.

"Now," he said, pushing off the doorframe, "switch back to Skull Man. Maybe he whispers sweet nothings into comms."

I groaned. "Koldun."

He held up both hands. "What? Maybe he say, 'Ninochka, I burn for you. Engage the enemy on three.'" He put on a terrible imitation of Ghost's deep tone. "'Target in sight. Heart in pieces.' So tragic."

I threw a nearby pen at his face.

He ducked and caught it effortlessly, then saluted with it.

"I am only saying," he added, strolling into the room with a cocky grin, "if Spectre finds out you listened to his mission, he will compose love poems. In Morse code."

"Why are you like this?"

"Is how I was born. Very dramatic. Like Swan Lake. Only with more explosives."

I couldn't help it—I laughed. Tired, raw, but real.

He plopped into the chair across from me, legs sprawled out, and tapped the console.

"You do not talk," he said. "Is good. Just listen. That is what they want."

I looked over at him.

He wasn't teasing now. Not fully.

"Ghost speaks like a knife. Fast. Quiet. But it cuts. You hear him, and you believe things are under control. You breathe."

I nodded, slowly.

"And Spectre..." He grinned. "Spectre yells in Russian and everyone obeys because otherwise? He throws them off the closest balcony."

I huffed a laugh through my nose.

Then—quieter—he added, "He will like that you listened. Even if he says nothing."

"I won't tell him."

Koldun shrugged. "I will. First thing. 'Your little Ninochka sat here like good spy. Moon-eyes, whole time.'" He mimed swooning.

I leaned back, rubbing my eyes. "You're lucky I'm too sore to stab you."

He beamed. "Is because I am adorable."

"You're like a fungal infection."

"That's fair."

I glanced at the console one more time, then slowly removed the headset. The silence that followed was jarring, like surfacing from deep water.

Koldun watched me. Not too close. Just enough.

"What now?" I asked.

He smirked. "Now we do what all great warriors do during war."

"Sleep?"

"Make snacks," he said solemnly. "Then we plan. Because twenty-two hours is a long time, and you will go mad if you sit here like a sad cat."

I snorted. "What kind of plan?"

"Important one." He stood, stretching like a cat. "We will need vodka, duct tape, perhaps one live chicken."

"Oh god."

He winked. "And karaoke machine. For morale."

I dropped my face into my hands.

But I was still smiling. The ache in my chest felt a little smaller.

And Koldun...

He was still a mystery in some ways. Loud, infuriating, unpredictable. A human Molotov cocktail with too many opinions and not enough shame. But beneath the theatrics, there was something steady in him. No masks. No polished edges. Just who he was—chaotic, kind, and absolutely unashamed of it.

His English wasn't like mine. Or Spectre's. Not shaped by Chistilishe drills, by bruised knuckles and the cruel demand to sound perfect. Koldun spoke in thick syllables, dropped prepositions, rolled his R's like he was daring the world to correct him. He didn't hide the Russian in his voice. It made him sound real.

Innocent, in a way I wasn't used to. But still lethal.

I glanced over at him now, still humming some nonsense tune as he dug through a drawer for snack supplies, muttering to himself in half-languages.

He'd called me Ninochka. He'd made me laugh.

And somehow—somehow—we were becoming friends.