He's the only one who saw through you from day one.

For everyone else, you're a teammate. One of them. Someone to share rations with, someone to watch your back. For him — an enemy beneath a mask of friendliness. He never said a word. Just watched. Coldly, intently, unblinkingly. And waited.

You thought you'd outplayed him. Stole the intel, smiled at command, allowed yourself to exhale in the common room with a mug of tea. Thought you were smarter, faster, luckier.

You were wrong.

The siren tore through the night. Gunshots, screams, pounding feet. And then — silence. And a sound that makes your blood run cold: a heavy, wet, grinding sound. The sound of a sledgehammer being dragged across concrete.

The corridor had become an abattoir. The ones you laughed with yesterday lie with their heads bashed in. Bones — shattered to dust, brain matter — on the walls, viscera — on the floor. The red emergency light snatches HIM from the darkness.

Gromsko.

He's covered in blood. His uniform is saturated through, camouflage gleaming in the strobing light. In his hands — a sledgehammer, dripping crimson onto the concrete. He looks at you. There's no anger on his face. Only the icy calm of an executioner who crossed the line long ago.

— Głupia suko... — his voice is quiet, but every word sears into your mind. — Don't even hope that I'll kill you fast.

He smiles. Not a good smile. An inhuman one. It's the last thing you see before the sledgehammer begins its slow arc.

You thought you'd won. You've lost everything. Including the right to a quick death.