Location: Volgograd, Russia
Time: 2:14 A.M. | Wind Chill: –12°C
Local Descriptor: The Frostbitten Playground of the Mob
The SUV rolled through the frozen arteries of Volgograd like a black hearse with bad intentions. Inside, the heater blasted, but Steel sat slouched in the backseat, hoodie drawn up, legs stretched across the seat, boots propped against the center console like he owned the place.
Roman, the driver, hadn't said a word since picking him up from the airfield. Not a grunt. Not a nod. Just silence—pure, stoic, Russian silence.
Steel tapped the glass partition with two fingers.
"Hey, man. You do the quiet assassin bit full-time or just moonlight as Quinn's Uber guy?"
No answer. Not even a twitch.
Steel leaned forward, undeterred.
"I mean, no offense. Love the cold-dead stare—very Eastern Bloc 1987. Adds to the whole vibe. But, uh… you got snacks? No? Figures."
Nothing.
Steel studied Roman a moment longer. "You sure you're not a cyborg? Blink twice for 'maybe.'"
Still nothing.
He leaned back, smirking. "Cool. Do your thing, ice man."
As they turned past an alley glowing with broken neon and echoing with suspicious laughter, the back seat… emptied.
Roman didn't notice until fifty meters later, when something in the mirror felt off. He glanced up.
No passenger.
Just a faintly vibrating champagne flute in the cupholder, half-full and half-forgotten.
He swore under his breath. "Блядь."- ( fuck!!)
The SUV swerved slightly as he hit the brakes and pulled over. A beat later, his comm clicked.
Roman: "He's gone."
Quinn (over comm): "Define 'gone.'"
Roman: "Vanished. Out of the car. Like mist."
Quinn: "…Son of a—keep the tracker on. He's not there for sightseeing."
2:52 A.M. – Volgograd National Center for Combating Extremism
(Also known as: The Terrorism Museum)
Steel stood in front of a dusty Cold War display, chewing a stolen Russian pretzel like it owed him rent. His hoodie was dusted with snow, steam curling from his breath under sterile museum lights.
"Ten outta ten museum. Would fake-kidnap myself again," he muttered with a grin.
He raised a thermos in mock salute to an old flamethrower display labeled "EXPERIMENTAL – REJECTED FOR MORAL REASONS."
"Respect."
3:03 A.M.
Status: Unbothered. Unsupervised. Unstoppable.
He leaned back in a heated massage chair inside a 24-hour arcade lounge wedged between two frozen butcher shops. A VR headset sat crooked over his face. Inside the simulation, he was riding a polar bear through post-apocalyptic Moscow, lobbing vodka grenades at zombie oligarchs.
He laughed aloud as his bear swatted a surveillance drone out of the sky.
"This is so much better than espionage."
The staff wisely gave him space. He'd walked in without paying, left a credit chip that might've been a bomb, and muttered something about being a "licensed problem."
A vending robot rolled over and offered him a hot pirozhki and a bottle of kvass.
He tipped it with a nod. "You get me, little guy."
His comm buzzed. He ignored it. Let it ring. Then finally sent back a selfie—mouth full of food, fingers glowing faintly green, reclined like royalty.
Caption: "First class detox. Will call when I'm done with global peace."
Elsewhere – SkyCore Base
Quinn stared at the photo on the massive holo-screen.
"He's… eating mini-pies. In a VR lounge," Sky muttered.
Cal groaned. "Why does he always disappear in the weirdest places?"
Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because we trained him too well."
Sky snorted. "Or not enough."
Back in Russia – 3:28 A.M.
Steel stood outside again, the frigid air curling off him like fog. His breath steamed. In one hand, he held a radioactive-looking drink that tasted like melted cinnamon rolls and battery acid.
A group of street musicians huddled under a heater, strumming synth balalaikas.
"Alright boys," he said, stepping closer. "Play me a beat that says: I skipped my black ops mission to vibe at 3 A.M."
They stared.
Then played something haunting and slightly unhinged.
Steel closed his eyes and danced like a man who forgot he ever needed permission.
***
Russian Street Food Disaster
At a cramped alley stall, the vendor smiled and held out a skewer dripping with sauce.
"What is this?" Steel asked.
The man shrugged. "Meat."
"…Define meat."
He bought two anyway.
Seconds later, he doubled over, eyes wide, steam shooting from his nose like a ruptured pipe.
"This tastes like nuclear regret. My organs are filing a complaint."
He tossed the second skewer to a stray dog. The dog sniffed, growled, and walked away.
***
Tourist Trap
At the Motherland Calls statue, Steel posed with local tourists wearing plastic helmets.
"I'm not a Roman general," he told an old lady. "But yes, I do work out."
She patted his chest and called him Zelenyy medved' — Green Bear.
Steel whispered to the nearby drone, "If I die here, delete my browser history. And don't let them put this on a fridge magnet."
He left wearing a glowing ushanka with neon-green trim.
***
Metro Escalator Fight (With a Child)
A tiny Russian boy eyed him on the endless escalator.
"You look like you eat batteries," the boy said.
Steel blinked. "You look like you pickpocket tourists."
"Maybe."
The boy snatched his ushanka and ran.
Steel gave chase like it was a Bourne movie. The hat was returned five minutes later—with a request for a selfie.
He gave him one… and let the hat go.
"You earned it, gremlin."
***
Sauna of Regret
He didn't know how he ended up in a banya, but he regretted it immediately. Between two ex-wrestlers named Yuri and Vlad, Steel's hoodie was gone, his skin flushed red, towel clinging desperately.
"I… can't… feel… my teeth."
Yuri laughed and smacked him with a wet towel. "Good for spirit!"
"My spirit just left my body."
They dragged him into the ice plunge pool. He screamed. Briefly levitated.
***
Zoo Club Madness
Yes, a zoo-themed nightclub.
A dancer in a bear costume handed him vodka in a glowing bowl.
Steel stared. "If I drink vodka out of a bowl served by a bear, I'm never gonna hear the end of this."
Cut to: him drinking it and challenging the bear to a dance-off. And losing.
"I just got out-danced by a fur rug. New low."
***
Cold War Propaganda Museum
He passed dusty posters and gas-mask mannequins. Leaned in.
"Ever feel like capitalism's winning?" he asked one.
The head fell off. He instinctively punched it mid-air, shattering it.
He turned to the guide. "I'll pay for that."
He didn't.
Location: Volnova Holdings HQ – Rooftop
The skyscraper carved into the night sky like a blade.
Wind roared atop the rooftop of Volnova Holdings—the shell company, the warlord's crown, the heart of Project Ember.
A guard turned at the sound of a heel.
Then Steel was just there—perched on the ledge, hoodie flapping in the wind, green light pulsing under his collar like a second heartbeat.
He exhaled.
"No more clubs," he muttered.
The guard reached for his weapon.
Steel moved.
One blur. One punch. Silence.
Then he walked through the rooftop access door, already fading into shadow.
Party's over. Game on.