77. Russian therapy

Spectre's safehouse, Warsaw - 06:02

The second the last SUV rolled out of the safehouse compound, the quiet hit like a fist.

Not a peaceful quiet. Not the kind that settled. The kind that buzzed at the edges of your ears, thick and wrong and suffocating. I stared at the reinforced door behind me, arms crossed, one hand clutching the hem of my shirt.

They were gone.

The Wolves. The 141. Him.

Ghost.

And the silence that followed didn't settle—it echoed.

I hadn't said goodbye. I hadn't needed to—at least, that's what I told myself. Captain Price had briefed them at 0500, and by 0540 they were piling into vehicles, weapons loaded, comms checked, movements crisp and professional. No goodbyes. No lingering looks. Just clean exits and cold timing.

Except... his hand had brushed mine.

Barely. Just before he turned to follow the rest. A gloved hand grazing my bandaged side, a quiet, grounding touch. No words. Just that—and the way his mask tilted slightly, as if memorizing me.

Then they were gone.

And I was still here.

My fingers twitched at my side. I forced myself to breathe, to stay rooted, to not spiral.

But the silence kept growing. Pressing.

The walls rattled slightly in the frame. Old bunker. Eastern Polish construction—thick concrete walls, double-bolted doors, reinforced everything. It was safe. Secure.

Empty.

I turned from the door sharply, pacing across the hallway, my boots muffled by the threadbare runner along the floor. I passed the weapons rack for the third time—full, untouched. Maps still rolled tight on the wall. A faint draft curled down the hallway, smelling of gun oil, cold metal, and bitter coffee that no one had made yet.

They'd only been gone twenty minutes.

I was already losing it.

"Stupid," I muttered under my breath, pressing my thumb to my temple. "You're not a rookie. Get a grip."

But my fingers were already twitching. My shoulder ached from tension, and my bandaged side pulsed with a low, hot throb—half pain, half memory. I couldn't sit still. Couldn't lie down. Couldn't—

The air shifted behind me.

"Pacing like this, Ninochka, you'll wear hole through floor. Spectre will blame me, you know."

I turned sharply—didn't jump, wouldn't give him the satisfaction—but there he was, leaning against the doorway like he'd been there all morning. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, boots untied. Koldun's dark hair was mussed like he hadn't slept. His ever-present smirk tugged at his mouth, sharp and crooked.

"You're sneaky for someone who stomps like a tank." I said.

He spread his hands in mock innocence. "Is not sneaky. You're just very distracted."

I turned back toward the hallway, trying to breathe through the growing itch beneath my skin. "You're annoying."

"That's why Spectre left me here," he said cheerfully. "Annoy you back into sanity."

My hands twitched.

He tilted his head slightly, watching me for a beat longer. The smirk didn't fade, but something under it sharpened—a flicker of seriousness, quick as a gunshot. "You've got the shakes."

My body went still.

"Don't." I said. Too quiet. Too fast.

But Koldun didn't move closer. He just stayed there, relaxed, arms loosely crossed now over his chest. "He told me."

"Who?"

"Who do you think?" he said, voice softer now. "He didn't say much. Just that you get them sometimes. When you're left behind. When you're alone."

The words scraped raw.

I looked down at my side, the bandage tucked under the hem of my shirt, still faintly pink from this morning's change. My fingers hovered there, then dropped.

"He left me here," I muttered. "Went on the mission. Didn't even tell me that he told you and—"

"He left me too, Ninochka." Koldun cut in. "Said, 'Stay here. Watch her.' Like I'm a dog."

I blinked.

He shrugged, pushing off the wall with a roll of his shoulder. "But then he looked at me, and you know what he said? 'She'll pretend she's fine. Don't let her be alone if she isn't.'" A pause. "He meant the shakes. He meant this."

My chest pulled tight.

Koldun's voice dropped lower—less mocking now, the accent heavier. "You always get them like this?"

"When I'm left behind, but other things trigger it too." I said. "When I can't move. Can't act."

He nodded slowly. "Da. I know this feeling."

"You do?"

"I spent year in hospital once," he said, dropping into a nearby chair like gravity had finally pulled him down. "Shot twice, back and leg. Could not even walk for three months. They gave me a TV, books, a nurse who hated me. Thought I'd go insane."

"You didn't?"

"Almost strangled doctor with own stethoscope," he said with a grin. "But no. Did not go insane. Just very... twitchy."

I cracked a faint smile. "I'm past twitchy."

"Then we do something."

"Like what?"

Koldun sat up straighter, eyes bright. "We are both Russian, yes?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"So," he said grandly, standing again with exaggerated flare. "We drink vodka."

I blinked. "You're kidding."

"I never kid about vodka."

"We're alone."

"Exactly."

"They might need us."

"They won't need a damn thing from us for forty-eight hours," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Price said it himself. Makarov's trail is cold. They'll spend first day just finding the rat hole he's hiding in."

"I'm injured."

"All the more reason to drink. Kill pain. Relax nerves. Forget we're not out there being glorious heroes."

My eyes narrowed. "You just want an excuse to drink."

He grinned. "And you need an excuse not to run into a wall from boredom and nerves. We both win."

I stared at him.

He held up a finger. "Also—Spectre made me commander in his absence."

I blinked. "So what?"

"He didn't say the words, but I am second-in-command." He puffed out his chest dramatically. "It is basic battlefield hierarchy. Like wolfpack. He go? I lead. You obey. Da?"

I laughed. Truly, laughed.

He waggled his eyebrows. "Come, Ninochka. We drink. Talk shit. Tell secrets. Maybe I tell you.. embarrassing story about Spectre."

That gave me pause.

"Embarrassing?"

"Deeply humiliating."

I hesitated, then slowly turned toward the stairs. "If you're lying..."

"I never lie. Only exaggerate."

Spectre's safehouse, Warsaw - 06:27

The safehouse's kitchen was tucked behind a rusting steel door, its hinges a little too loud. Underground layout meant no windows, no light shifts. Just flickering bulbs and cement walls that pressed in like a crypt.

Koldun emerged victorious from a dusty supply crate, waving a half-empty vodka bottle like he'd just found the Ark of the Covenant.

"Emergency," he declared. "This is emergency, da?"

I slumped into a metal chair, ribs tight, muscles still vibrating with nerves. I hadn't fought. Hadn't moved. Hadn't been allowed. And that made everything worse.

"Maybe just one." I muttered.

He grinned like I'd handed him a medal. "I knew you loved me, Ninochka."

"I don't."

"Same thing."

He didn't bother with glasses—just snatched two dented tin mugs and filled them like a man with a mission. The vodka was clear, mean-smelling, probably distilled in a basement using brake fluid.

He handed me mine.

"To Spectre," he said solemnly. "That glorious bastard. Leaves me with a woman who paces like an angry tiger."

"To the Wolves," I added, raising mine. "And the 141."

"And to us," he said, tapping the mugs together with a smug tilt of his chin.

"Us?" I arched a brow.

He shrugged. "Still breathing. Mostly. Worth toasting."

And so we drank. It burned like swallowing a match.

I coughed. "Tastes like it was filtered through an engine block."

"Better than hospital vodka," he said, already pouring again. "Had that once. Came in plastic cup. With lid. Like for children. Or war criminals."

"You've been shot too many times."

"Three. One was friendly fire."

I stared.

He sipped like it was wine. "Was my fault. I insulted teammate's mother. He panicked. Shot me in the leg. We laugh now."

"Sure you do."

"I do. He still apologizes. Every Christmas."

The second shot went down easier. Or maybe my nerve endings were just giving up.

"You know," he said, slouching deeper into his chair, "I did not think I'd like you."

"Thanks?"

"You were very—how you say—mean."

"I wasn't mean."

He pointed with his tin cup. "You looked at me like you were picking a spot to stab."

"That's just my face."

"Exactly. Mean."

I rolled my eyes. "That is because you're annoying."

"Da. And you are terrifying. We match."

We sat in a rare moment of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

"I meant what I said," he added after a beat, voice lower now. "About Spectre. Why he left me with you."

My gut twisted.

"He didn't want you alone, Ninochka. He's not stupid. He knew you'd get the shakes. He's seen it coming. So—he left someone who knows what to look for. Someone who won't panic."

I stared into my mug.

"I'm not some fragile—"

"I know," he said, cutting me off gently. "You're elite. You're dangerous. But even the sharpest blades rattle, Ninochka—especially when no one's watching."

My fingers tightened around the metal.

He poured another shot. "I'm not here to babysit. I'm here to anchor."

"Spectre told you that?"

"Not in words. He just said—'Don't let her be alone if she's not fine.' Then he looked at me like—how do you say—like he was handing me a grenade with no pin."

"Sounds about right."

Koldun leaned forward. "You always get them like this?"

"When I'm grounded. When I can't move. Like my body remembers too much."

He nodded. "Mine comes in sleep. Wake up choking on ghosts. Chest locked, lungs fighting air that isn't there. Like the war snuck back in when I wasn't watching."

My eyes flicked to him.

He didn't look away. Just shrugged like it was weather.

"Once scared the hell out of my bunkmate. Thought I was seizing. He tried to hold me down, I nearly broke his nose." A pause. Then he smirked. "Next day he brought me tea. Didn't speak a word. Just... sat there. Every night after that."

"That's..." I swallowed. "Actually kind of sweet."

"Da," he said. "We're still friends. He's deaf in one ear now, but very loyal."

I snorted before I could stop myself.

"See?" he said smugly. "Therapy."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing."

He raised his mug again. I clinked mine without looking.

We drank again.

"You know," he said suddenly, in that fake-casual tone that always meant trouble, "you are very bad at emotional expression, Ninochka."

I blinked. "What?"

He waved his hand vaguely. "With men. With feelings. You know. You fight. You snap. You throw knives with eyes."

"I don't flirt."

"Exactly." He looked smug. "Russian woman. All fire, no signal. You flirt like a landmine. No warning, just boom."

I snorted. "And where are you getting this diagnosis?"

He leaned in conspiratorially. "You and Spectre fight like a married couple. Real old-fashioned Russian style. Passion, shouting, death threats. Very romantic."

I stared at him. "We weren't flirting. We were—"

"—trying not to kill each other. Da. Very romantic."

I rolled my eyes.

He shrugged. "Spectre liked it. Russian men... we like women who spit fire. Not too soft. Someone who could survive a Siberian winter and still look good holding a rifle."

"Koldun." 

"Da?" He grinned wider. "Ghost, though. He's not Russian. Quiet. Calm. British. I do not think he knows what to do with a woman who looks like she might bite."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

Koldun saw the hesitation. Pounced on it like a wolf.

"Ah," he said, satisfied. "So he does like it."

"I'm starting to think need help, Koldun."

"Da. But the therapist quit. Said I talk too much."

I laughed again. I couldn't help it.

He grinned. "You see? I'm good influence."

"You're chaos in human form."

He took a mock bow in his seat. "Thank you."

Then—Koldun slouched further in his chair like a man settling in for theatre, all smug mischief. "As we were saying.. Ghost?"

I blinked.

He smirked. "Don't play dumb, Ninochka. I saw you flinch."

"I didn't flinch."

"You twitched. Like a squirrel hearing safety click off."

I groaned. "We're not talking about this."

"Oh, we are. I have vodka, and commander privileges." He puffed his chest proudly. "I declare this mission: Dissect Ninochka's tragic love triangle."

"There is no triangle."

He leaned in, eyes alight. "Not what Mikhail told me."

My spine straightened like I'd been hit with a stun round. "He told you what?"

Koldun's grin went sharp. "About the... moment."

"What moment?" I asked warily.

"The one with the wall. And the yelling. And the making out."

My face went up in flames. "HE TOLD YOU ABOUT THAT?"¨

My stomach dropped—he knew. That moment was mine. Ours.

"He was vague!" Koldun said quickly, conversationally, hands up in surrender. "But vague like a Russian poet. You know, all fire and shadows and 'her mouth burned like sin'—very tasteful."

I smacked my forehead on the table.

He cackled. "Ninochka, you should see your face."

"That was private."

"That was hilarious. I had to pour myself double vodka just to process it. You? With Spectre? I thought one of you would murder the other before kissing happened."

"It was... complicated," I muttered into the table.

"I'll say." He poured another shot. "And here I thought you two only flirted through threats and trauma bonding."

"That's not flirting."

"It's Russian flirting."

I groaned again.

Koldun took a sip, then waved his mug for dramatic effect. "But you and Mikhail? That kiss—it wasn't nothing."

I looked up slowly. "No. But it wasn't everything either."

He tilted his head. "So. Ghost?"

I hesitated.

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie. I see it in your face. Whenever I say his name, you go all... soft in the eyes. Like an injured bird who found a shotgun."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now." He crossed his arms smugly. "You told Ghost about the kiss?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He said not to let Mikhail touch me like that again."

Koldun's eyebrows flew upward. "Shit."

"And then," I added carefully, "he said he won't be sharing."

Koldun slapped the table, nearly knocking over the vodka. "Blyat." Fuck. "That is not flirting. That is declaration of war."

"He wasn't angry. Just—cold. Steady."

"Worse. British people go nuclear at a calm volume." He mimicked Ghost's accent."

I cracked a grin despite myself.

Koldun leaned back, hands behind his head. "Honestly? Respect. Britishman has steel balls and sniper patience. But still..."

He let the sentence hang.

"What?" I asked.

He gave me a sly smile. "You and Spectre still burn."

I scoffed. "He told me he wouldn't steal me. Said he.. wouldn't ruin my perfect fairytale."

Koldun rolled his eyes. "Pah. Fairytales are for people who don't smell like blood and gunpowder. You? You need a nightmare with a good ending."

"That's comforting, Koldun. Truly, thank you."

"You're welcome." He winked. "Look, I'm not rooting for Spectre to steal you away... but if he did, I wouldn't cry about it."

"Are you team Spectre right now?"

"I'm team chaos. And team 'don't leave Koldun in emotional crossfire.' But mostly, I am fan of good drama. And Russian men who know where your knives are hidden."

"I hate you."

"You love me. I'm your emotional support vodka cousin."

"We are not cousins. God, I miss Ember. She'd deck you."

"She sounds wonderful. A little terrifying. Like you but smaller."

"She's about six centimeters shorter than me. She's deadly."

"Even better." He raised his mug. "To the nightmare siblings. And the Britishman with murder eyes."

We clinked cups again, laughing now. Looser. Warm. The vodka made everything sharp feel duller at the edges—but not gone.

Just... manageable.

He poured another, sighing as he leaned back. "Still think Mikhail's got the sharper edge."

"Why?"

He didn't smile this time. His voice came quieter now—like the heat had gone out of the vodka. "Ghost? He'd watch you walk into fire—because he knows you'll survive it. He trusts you not to burn. But Spectre... Spectre would pull you out before you even stepped in. Doesn't matter if you wanted it. Doesn't matter if you could take it. He'd still grab you."

I stared at him.

Koldun met my eyes. Something gentler there now. Almost... apologetic.

"One sees your strength and lets you burn bright. The other fears your pain so much, he'll snuff it out just to keep you safe. Both think they're saving you."

I stayed silent for a while. Then, softly, I muttered, "Maybe you're not half as dumb as you pretend."

He grinned again. "Don't tell anyone, Ninochka. I have a reputation to uphold." Koldun filled our cups again, gentler this time.

"To Spectre." he said.

I raised mine. "To Ghost."

We drank. The kitchen was warm now. Vodka-buzzed and safer than it had any right to be. And for the first time since they'd left, I didn't feel like I was drowning.

"You are strange woman, Ninochka," he said eventually. "But I like you."

"Pustaya golova." I muttered softly. Empty head.