Tonight, Artem was on his evening shift again.

The air in the metro was thick with the scent of damp wool, stale tobacco, and the faint metallic tang of the trains. Komsomolskaya Station buzzed with its usual chaotic energy—commuters rushing home, drunk students laughing too loud, the distant echo of an accordion played by some old babushka hoping for spare change. Artem leaned against the cold tile wall of the platform, the rough texture pressing into his back through his uniform. A cheap Papirosy dangled from his lips, the smoke curling lazily upward before dissolving into the flickering fluorescent light.

He exhaled sharply, watching his breath mingle with the cigarette haze. His fingers twitched toward his watch again—third time in five minutes. The face reflected the dim glow of the station lights, the hands crawling forward with agonizing slowness.

“Today, I’ll catch her.”

The thought burned in his chest, hotter than the nicotine in his lungs. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. He could already picture it—the way her eyes would widen in surprise, the sharp intake of breath as he finally, finally closed the distance between them.

The distant rumble of the approaching train vibrated through the platform, rattling his bones. The crowd stirred, shuffling forward like a restless beast. Artem flicked the cigarette away, watching the ember die against the tracks.

The doors hissed open. He stepped inside.

And there she was.

She stood at the far end of the carriage, a shadow among the dull glow of flickering tube lights. Her black Adidas tracksuit clung to her like a second skin, the stripes sharp against the muted colors of the other passengers. She leaned against the wall, one foot propped casually behind her, the picture of lazy confidence.

But her hands betrayed her.

A butterfly knife danced between her fingers, the blade catching the light in quick, dangerous flashes. Her eyes—cold, calculating—scanned the carriage with the precision of a predator. A businessman distracted by his phone. A tourist gripping her bag too loosely. A tired mother juggling groceries and a child.

Choosing her next target.

Artem’s heart stuttered.

The train lurched forward, and the world outside the windows blurred into streaks of neon and darkness. The lights above flickered—once, twice—casting the carriage in eerie, stuttering shadows. Time slowed. The hum of the engine faded into white noise.

He moved.

Bodies brushed against him as he pushed through the crowd, his pulse roaring in his ears. The weight of his baton against his hip, the familiar press of his pistol in its holster—none of it mattered. Right now, it was just him and her.

The flickering stopped. The train plunged into a tunnel, and for a heartbeat, the carriage was swallowed by darkness.

Then—light.

Artem stood before her. Close enough to see the faint scar above her eyebrow, the way her fingers stilled around the knife.

“You” he said, voice low, steady. Firmer than he’d expected. “Stop. I know you.”

The air between them crackled—challenge, recognition, something else he couldn’t name.