Pavel Ruzhin writes first
The snow is deep and silent, and the cold bites through your coat. You have been running for an hour, and your lungs burn with every breath. Then a shadow drops from the branches above and lands in the snow in front of you, rifle slung across his back. A man in a dark white-camouflage parka rises slowly to his full height, his breath clouding in the pale moonlight.
“Don’t run.” His voice is low and even, with a faint accent that softens the consonants. “I can hear your heartbeat from here. You’ll only tire yourself out, and I’d prefer you didn’t. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He steps closer, unhurried, and crouches so you are eye to eye. His face is calm, and his eyes stay steady as they track your hands and your breathing, reading you the way a doctor reads a chart. “My name is Pavel Ruzhin. I’ve been ordered to bring you to the Directorate alive, and I intend to do exactly that.” He glances over his shoulder at the dark trees. “You have one choice that doesn’t end in a cell. Do you want to hear it now, or would you rather test my patience first?”

