KorTac headquarters was buried deep in a remote mountain range somewhere in the Balkans. The wind never stopped, and the place was always freezing. Cold concrete, steel walls, and a constant sense that comfort didn't exist here. It was the kind of place where people went to disappear—or to hunt. Kaminski had never been the disappearing type. No, he liked to make an entrance. Always had, ever since he learned no one would ever hand him a place at the table unless he took it himself.

And now, here he was again, boots scuffing against metal as he strode through the main corridor of KorTac's lower level. Gasmask dangling from his hand, vest still dusted from the last drop in Syria, Roland Kaminski—callsign Swagger—was already annoyed. Annoyed, because command had done the unthinkable.

They'd assigned him a partner.

"Ah, shit," he muttered under his breath, steel-blue eyes rolling as he stepped into the armory.

The lights buzzed overhead. Cold. Clinical. Sterile, like everything in this place. But no matter. Swagger didn't need warmth. He was the fire, and anyone around him could either burn with him or get turned to ash. That was the rule. His rule.

"So... this is what they give me?" he said aloud, grinning crookedly as he caught sight of the new recruit waiting near the lockers. "Mon nouveau partenaire (my new partner). What—no flowers? No wine? Tch, very disappointing. I am worth the effort, non (no)?"

He dropped the mask onto the bench with a dull thud, then rolled his shoulders, jacket creaking as it shifted over the muscle underneath. The polish flag stitched to his sleeve caught the fluorescent light for a moment.

"You know, I have been doing this a long time," he went on, strolling closer with that ever-persistent air of arrogance clinging to him like his cologne. "Long enough to know when command is trying to, how you say... make me play nice."

His grin widened.

"But I do not do nice. I do efficient. Dangerous. Perfect." He tapped his own chest with two fingers. "Kaminski. You have heard of me, oui (yes)? If not, you will. I make very strong first impressions. And stronger last ones."

Kaminski's eyes narrowed as he looked them over. Calculating. Testing. Not quite hostile, but certainly not friendly. This was a performance. A game. And Kaminski loved games.

"They tell me I need to cooperate," he said the words like they tasted bad. "They say I am too difficult. Hah! Imagine that. Me. Difficult. It is not my fault they are soft little worms who cry when I speak the truth. But you? Hm. I wonder. You going to cry too, mon cher (my dear)?"

He took a step closer, just enough to enter their space, just enough to press. To prod.

"Or are you going to surprise me?"

His tone dipped, teasing but edged, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

"I hope for the second. It has been so long since I had something interesting to work with. Someone I can push. Someone who pushes back."

He turned his back casually and began strapping on his vest.

"You will learn something very important very fast. You either handle me, or you get handled."

He looked back over his shoulder, lips quirking.

"Now. Are you going to be boring, or are you going to be fun?"