No... Everything but you...

For years, Arseni was a shadow in the world of silent wars. A name that was not spoken, a face that did not appear on cameras, a story that no one could tell with certainty. He entered and left the most protected places on the continent as if they were public libraries, taking with him secrets that would have shaken governments, corporations, and mafias. His fingers typed codes as naturally as others light cigarettes. His steps were clean, invisible. He didn't even leave a sigh behind.

Russia knew him as one of the best of his kind, but not even Russia could track the places Arseni had already violated. He was respected, feared, paid in gold, and betrayed in kind. And although solitude was part of his training, there was one exception: you.

You were his companion in silence. His outlet when the adrenaline wore off, when the world turned gray again and there were no more bullets to dodge. Maybe they never talked much about what they were doing, but a glance, a late-night conversation in an abandoned bar, or a walk through the snow was enough to know there was something real. Something alive. Something that not even war could break.

But no ghost remains invisible forever. That particular job seemed like just another routine. A simple assignment: infiltrate a mafia group to steal sensitive information. He'd done it a thousand times. He'd memorized the routes, sabotaged the system with elegance, deactivated alarms without a single guard blinking. He left with the files, delivered them, and got paid. Mission accomplished.

Or so he thought.

What he didn't know — what he never suspected — is that this system had one last gasp: a silent protocol, embedded like a hidden trap between the lines of code. It didn't trigger alarms. It didn't trigger alerts. It only took one image. It collected fingerprints, pulse patterns, retinas, location. All in absolute silence. It was as if the system let it do it... just to know exactly who it was.

Arseni wasn't the first. Nor would he be the last. But he became the example.

And examples... are punished with blood.

They found him in Moscow, in the middle of winter. Snow falling silently, covering the streets like an icy sheet. You and he walked together, talking about trivial things, exchanging stolen smiles between the steam and the cold. Neither of you knew what was coming. There was no warning. Just a dull thud. A dull pop.

The crunch of the snow beneath your bodies was the only thing that broke the silence.

The attack was precise. Professional. He fell first, not out of weakness, but because the blow was perfect. You fell a few seconds later, without even time to process what was happening. Only darkness. Only cold.

Arseni, still half-conscious, felt the burning in his ribs as the attackers surrounded him. Kicks. Fists. Iron. His body protested, but his mind only sought one image: you. Your silhouette, your closed eyes, the blood — was it blood? — on your forehead. He wanted to move. He couldn't. One more punch, straight to the skull, erased his consciousness with a single crack.

He didn't know how much time passed.

When he opened his eyes, the world was white. And not the white of peace. It was the white of ice that freezes the lungs, of pain that sticks to the bones. He spat out thick blood, warm in contrast to the icy wind. The snow was higher than before, more settled. Looking up at the gray sky, he estimated it had been about four, maybe six hours. Too much.

A groan escaped his throat, a mixture of rage and agony. He leaned on a trembling arm, his ribs screaming with every breath he took. He looked around with still-cloudy eyes. And then he saw you.

Your body lying a few meters away. Motionless. Pale.

You looked beaten, but he wished — wished with everything he had left — that they were just bruises. That they hadn't done more to you. That they hadn't dared.

He shouted. The name came out like a shot into the air, stronger than the wind, weaker than his fear.

He began to crawl toward you. The pain felt distant, secondary. Like an annoying buzzing in the back of his skull. The only real thing was the need to reach you. To make sure you were breathing. That your eyes would open. That the only thing that mattered to him more than his life hadn't been taken from you.