Russian Nights

Anya's knuckles whitened on the rain-slick steering wheel. The downpour blurred St. Petersburg's neon lights, the world reduced to pounding rain and her frantic heartbeat. This wasn't just a mission. Sokolov...the man whose photo made her stomach twist. Uncle Dimitri's killer.

Felix and his damn Parisian coffee. "Simple in, simple out," he'd said. Liar. Nothing about this was simple. Not after the photo. After she realized...

The hospital loomed, a grim fortress against the storm. Anya's breath hitched. Heather's voice, warm and steady over the comm, was the only thing keeping her grounded. "You've got this, Anya." Anya needed her to be right.

She slipped into the parka, fingers fumbling the zipper. Not Dr. Petrova tonight. No, tonight she was a shadow, a vengeful ghost. Tonight, the game was deadly, and it was time to play.

Felix, with his stupid smirk and his lukewarm coffee, laid it out plain enough at some Parisian hole-in-the-wall. General Vladimir Sokolov -- the name was acid on her tongue -- some "hunting accident." More like a butcher finally facing a sliver of justice. He was holed up in St. Petersburg, and Anya, with her perfect Russian and a whole lot of bottled-up rage, was the one to finish him.

The hospital loomed, a grim beast hunched against the storm. Anya took a breath -- in through the nose, out slow -- like she'd practiced a thousand times. But the panic still clawed at her throat. "You got this, Anya," Heather's voice crackled over the earpiece, that warm accent cutting through the fear. God, she shouldn't rely on Heather like this. It was sloppy, dangerous. But Heather...damn it, sometimes she was the only thing keeping Anya from spiraling.

The parka clung to her, damp and heavy, as Anya eased from the car. One moment, she was just another rain-soaked figure. The next -- gone. No Dr. Petrova tonight, no polite smiles or healing touch. Tonight, she was a blade honed in the darkness, a whisper of vengeance in the storm. Sokolov made it personal. Stupid bastard should've known better -- Anya was damn good at playing games in the shadows.

The hospital's sterile hum was her soundtrack now. Each day, the white coat felt less like a doctor's uniform, more like a hunter's gillie suit. Medicine tray in hand, a smile plastered on, Anya moved through the motions. But under that practiced nurse persona, her mind raced. Sokolov's ward... his men were everywhere, thick-necked and twitchy. The bastard was as paranoid as he was vicious.

Every time she snuck a glance at Sokolov -- the pinched whiteness of his face, the way his knuckles strained against the hospital sheets -- the memory of Dimitri hit her like a punch to the gut. Not his execution photo. The real Dimitri, his chuckle booming as he told some ridiculous story by the fire, the smell of old books and woodsmoke that clung to him. The feel of his rough, calloused hand over hers as he guided her chess pieces. All of it, snuffed out by this pathetic creature gasping for breath. Her doctor's mask might've been perfect, but inside, rage boiled.

Luck, or maybe it was Heather's brilliance with a keyboard, struck earlier than planned. The lights flickered, then died, plunging the ward into a chaos of shouts and scrambling footsteps. Anya, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, was already in scrubs, stethoscope draped casually -- a prop, not a tool tonight. She ghosted into Sokolov's room, the syringe a cold weight in her hand. Emergency lights cast sickly shadows.

Sokolov jerked awake, his grunt of pain turning into a strangled gasp. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked on hers. A flash of recognition -- the hunted animal realizing the trap -- before pure terror contorted his face. "You..." he choked out, "...the doctor!"

The words hung in the sterile air, barely a breath: "Your executioner."

Muscle memory took over. Years of GRU training, the relentless drills, driving her past the point of rage into cold focus. The fight was a blur of motion, a desperate dance she'd rehearsed in her nightmares.

Then... stillness. Sokolov, a crumpled heap on the floor. That ugly smirk forever twisted into a mask of surprise. And Anya, standing amidst the wreckage... not with triumph, but with a hollow echo where her heart should be.

The escape was rote. Change clothes, time the walk, fade into the controlled chaos of returning power. Textbook, just like the drills. But the textbook didn't cover the hollowness in her chest, the lead weight in her legs. Anya, the machine, had functioned. Anya, the woman...she wasn't sure what she was anymore.

Felix was waiting, hunched over a cold cup of coffee. No congratulations, no debrief questions. Just that tired look, the one that said he knew she'd broken something inside herself tonight. "It's done," Anya rasped, the words tasting like ash.

Good." A pause, then, "Anya, are you... alright?"

His concern cut through her. Genuine, which made it almost worse. How could she explain she wasn't the same woman anymore? The doctor, the lover...they were masks, pieces of a life that felt far away. Something was broken inside her, something reforged in the fires of Sokolov's cruelty.

"Get me back to Heather," Anya said, her voice rough. "That's the only thing that feels real right now."

Heather was a shadow against the Berlin skyline, the rain-streaked windowpane blurring the city lights. The reunion... God, it had been a gut punch. Not the joyful embrace Anya had craved. There was a space between them now, a chasm Anya couldn't quite bridge.

"You did it," Heather said. Her voice, usually so vibrant, was a rasp. No question. More like an accusation.

"Of course. It was the mission." Anya's voice was all business. The lie rasping in her throat.

"And...?" Heather's tone wasn't an accusation, just that familiar patient warmth.

"And Dimitri is avenged." Even as Anya said it. The words rang hollow. Was this what justice felt like? Not triumph, but a gnawing emptiness.

Silence stretched, heavy as the rain outside. Anya kept her eyes on the sterile hospital floor. A coward facing her reflected fear. Before, rage had been a shield. Now, she was left with the wreckage.

"Love," Heather murmured, her touch on Anya's cheek feather-light. Anya didn't flinch from the contact but something behind her eyes tightened, her jaw clenched. "Anger, even vengeance, I get. But this... it's like you're drowning, Anya."

A bitter laugh escaped Anya's lips. "Maybe I am. Maybe that's just...what I do." She couldn't meet Heather's worried gaze, stared instead at their hands where they almost touched. Heather's, warm and alive. Anya's, cold even through the thin gloves.

"Shadows need light." Heather's voice, barely a whisper on the line, but the words cut deep. "Let me be your light, Anya." Warmth. That's what Heather offered. A blazing hearth against the chill seeping into Anya's bones. A part of her -- weak, foolish -- yearned for it. But how could she explain? This wasn't about a mission gone wrong, wasn't just the usual shadows of her job. This was... different. Darker.

Days blurred into a haze. Meetings with Felix, intel drops, the whole bloody dance of spy craft... it felt like a play Anya was acting in, but her heart wasn't in it anymore. Even Heather's chatter, that lifeline to something resembling normal, was starting to grate. A reminder that she wasn't normal, not anymore.

Then came the call. "We've got your next target," Felix said, and god, his voice was practically gleeful. Sick humor masking the grim reality of their game. "And this one, Anya, this one's going to feel damn good."

The target -- human traffickers, vultures circling the desperate -- turned her stomach inside out. But mixed with the nausea, a strange little flicker. Hope? Could she use this, the violence she knew so well, for more than just vengeance?

The mission...it was a blur of false smiles, whispered deals in seedy backrooms. Each act of violence, calculated and cold, rattled her. A reminder of what they'd done to her, what they did to others. But each takedown, each sliver of evidence...it was chipping away at something bigger than Sokolov, bigger than her own damn pain.

Heather, in the shadows as always, was her lifeline. Crackling radio transmissions, a shared heartbeat of determination fueling them both. When the op ended, the raid a blur of orchestrated chaos, the relief hit Anya like a physical blow.

Berlin... the dingy safe house smelling of stale coffee and Heather's familiar warmth. Heather's arms, strong and steady, a desperate embrace. Something in Anya's chest, bound tight for so long, finally cracked open. Not peace, not yet, but a flicker of something... lighter. Maybe, just maybe, the ghost could find her way back to being a person again.

Chapter Venice

Venice shimmered around them, a maze of canals reflecting the sun like scattered jewels. After the last op, a knot of relentless tension in Anya's gut, Felix had tossed them this bone: a weekend, a mask of normalcy in the city of lovers.

They drifted on a gondola, Anya's head tucked against Heather's shoulder. The boat rocked, a lullaby against the hum of the city. Sunlight painted Heather's skin, and those faint scars along her jaw were like whispers of another life. Anya wanted to trace them, ask the hundred questions burning on her tongue, but that wasn't how this worked.

"You're quiet," Heather murmured, her voice barely a whisper against Anya's ear. A teasing smile played on her lips.

"Just..." Anya started, then let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah, happy." It wasn't the whole truth, the worry was always there, a low hum beneath the joy. But here, with Heather, it felt... distant.

They spent afternoons meandering along cobblestone streets, fingers loosely entwined. Gelato dripped down their hands, sticky and sweet. Stolen kisses in hidden piazzas tasted of summer and a freedom Anya craved. The soft glow of a rustic trattoria warmed her skin, and their laughter bounced off ancient stone walls. Childhood dreams and silly ambitions tumbled out -- a world away from missions and the ever-present weight of secrets.

Evenings were for languid exploration -- whispers shared over steaming espresso in St. Mark's Square, losing track of time in tiny galleries, the brush of hands lingering a second too long over a chipped marble bust. And always, back to their little apartment, that cozy nest with the smell of old books and fresh rosemary from the window box.

It was there, bodies warm and intertwined under worn cotton sheets, that Anya felt whole again. Heather's touch wasn't just a balm; it was sunlight through a dusty window, chasing away the shadows. Her laughter -- sometimes a touch too loud against the Venetian quiet -- was a symphony Anya couldn't get enough of.

In those stolen moments between stolen kisses and quiet confessions, Anya let herself dream. Not the blood-soaked dreams of missions gone wrong, but simple ones. Using those same hands to stitch wounds, not inflict them. Sharing secrets with Heather, not hiding them behind lies. A life where Anya wasn't splintered, wasn't just the ghost, but also the woman.

Their last morning, Venice was a watercolor world. On the Rialto Bridge, the hum of tourists faded against the soft lap of water. "Thank you," Anya murmured, eyes finding Heather's. The smile felt fragile on her lips, full of everything she couldn't say.

"Thank me for what?"

Anya squeezed Heather's hand. "For being patient," she finally said, but the words felt thin. Patient wasn't it. How could she sum up... everything that was Heather? The way she cut through Anya's darkness with that fierce laugh.

Heather leaned in, their foreheads almost touching. "Always, my love. Always." The words were a soft promise, a lifeline.

Chapter spy stuff

Venice felt like a dream already, a stolen week of sunshine in a world of shadows. But even back in the chill, the danger, that warmth clung to Anya. It was a different kind of armor -- a sliver of hope against all the ugliness she faced. Maybe the future was a damn mess, but... she glanced at Heather, that steady gaze, the smile playing at her lips. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't so bleak after all.

Felix's call cut through the warmth of Venice like a blade. That usual smirk probably gone from his voice, replaced by something sharper. "Anya, this one's...different. Bad different. And it might get personal."

Anya closed her eyes, the hum of the piazza fading. Even over a bad connection, she could hear the tension in his voice. Missions were never cozy, but this...there was a weight to his words. The briefing was in some faceless hotel room, the air thick with cheap coffee and that low buzz of people who knew too much. The target -- a rogue bioweapons scientist, some ex-Soviet nightmare that crawled out of the woodwork. Siberian tundra, ghost facility... Just another day in the cheerful world of espionage.

They said Volkova was backing the scientist. The name alone made Anya's stomach clench, a cold sweat breaking out despite the frigid air. Volkova, her old...master. The woman had a way of peeling you back, layer by layer, until all that was left was a raw, obedient tool. Anya knew that ache firsthand.

Felix, bless his blunt heart, didn't sugarcoat it. "Volkova might be there, Anya. But focus on the mission. Scientists first, intel second, then get the hell out."

Siberia wasn't just cold, it was a kind of emptiness. Like the world had been bleached of color. Just like inside her. The snow whispered against her boots with every step. A mocking echo of the instructors' voices, the crack of rifle fire. Every damn shadow seemed to hold Volkova's ghost -- her cruel smirk. The glint of a scalpel.

Heather was the only warmth here. "Stronger than her. Remember that." She'd say, the concern bleeding through her usual fire. But Anya felt anything but strong. The fear wasn't a beast anymore, it was a quiet, gnawing thing. Hollowing her out from the inside.

The lab buzzed with a cold, fluorescent hum -- the kind that sets your teeth on edge. Gleaming chrome everywhere, the smell of disinfectant sharp enough to make her eyes water. This wasn't a hospital, it was a fortress, built to keep secrets as much as conduct science. Every step of this damn infiltration was a test. Her white coat suddenly felt like a paper costume, every pair of eyes burning holes into her fake ID badge. Sweat trickled down her spine, and it wasn't just the sterile heat. But years of lies had honed her into something adaptable, slippery...a chameleon against those sterile walls.

Anya's breath hitched. There, in a flickering pool of light, stood Volkova. The years hadn't softened the iron in her eyes. A jolt of recognition, then that cruel, knowing smile. "Anitchka," Volkova's voice dripped with false warmth, her old codename for Anya a poisoned blade.

Every muscle in Anya's body screamed to run, to fight. Memories flooded back -- brutal training sessions, Volkova's icy lectures on 'necessary sacrifices.' But Sokolov's face swam before her eyes, Dimitri's terrified gaze. The mission -- justice -- it was the only thing keeping her from shattering.

Her shoulders slumped, her eyes lowered. Just another assistant. Nothing to see here. Volkova, the viper, preened under the deception. Anya hated it. But the hatred was fuel now. A dangerous fuel, one she had to control. This game -- using Volkova's ego to pry open the doors she needed -- it made her skin crawl.

The man was a whirlwind, all nervous energy and manic ramblings about formulas. But as Anya listened, a different kind of storm raged inside her. This wasn't just intel. It was power. Power those like Sokolov. Like the men who took Dimitri, used to shatter lives. Stealing a piece of that power back...yes. There was a bitter satisfaction in that. A small victory, maybe, but hers.

Escape -- a burst of violence, a calculated dance in the dark. As she plunged into the blinding snow. The world was a storm, not a prison. Volkova's voice, a hiss in her memory. Drowned out by the screaming wind. Anya was the weapon now, but this time, the violence had purpose. A desperate fury born from loss. And somewhere, cutting through the chaos, was Heather. Proof that she wasn't just a killer, not anymore.

Anya should have damn well known better. The escape, too smooth, the guards practically waving her through. It reeked of a trap. Felix's voice, tinny and distant over the comm, just confirmed what her gut had been screaming.

"Volkova's playing you, Anya. She let you go."

Anya's curse tasted like bile. Of course Volkova was that kind of twisted -- the kind who enjoyed ownership more than victory. The bioweapons data? That was replaceable. But Anya...she was a trophy, a symbol of Volkova's reach, a reminder of what happens to those who betray her.

"New extraction plan," Heather's voice was all sharp edges now, the usual warmth bleeding through with a hint of panic. "We play dead, vanish like ghosts. Volkova hunts best when she thinks she's cornered the prey."

They were shadows now, flickering across borders, backroads their only map. Anya's crisp white coat hung forgotten. Instead, there was the greasy denim of a truck driver, the tired polyester of a roadside waitress, the faded pack of a lost hiker. Each change a mask, each mile a little more distance between her and Volkova's iron fist.

But their luck ran out faster than fuel in a stolen truck. The cabin, a rough-hewn promise of a few days' peace, bristled with guns instead of pines. Spetsnaz -- those wolves in soldiers' clothing -- poured from the woods. Anya and Heather fought like cornered cats, spitting and desperate, but it was a hopeless dance against that kind of firepower.

Cold steel clamped her wrists, the bite shocking against her fevered skin. Through the blur of faces, Volkova materialized. Hair a mess, uniform torn, but those eyes... they gleamed with a predator's satisfaction.

"Anitchka," Volkova purred, the childhood nickname a venomous hiss now. "Back where you belong. Under my thumb."

Every bone-jarring jolt of the truck was another hammer blow against her blindfolded skull. The gag tasted of sweat and blood -- her own, probably. They wanted to break her? Fine. She'd bite back, a rabid animal, until they were forced to finish the job themselves. Every curse screamed in her head, never making it past her teeth. That was her defiance now.

Russia loomed, a vast, cold grave. One of those faceless prisons where they'd pick her apart, piece by painful piece. The nausea hit then, worse than the truck's violent sway. But her hand fumbled in her pocket, found the capsule's smooth curve. Volkova could have her corpse, sure. But Anya, the woman? Never.

Destiny? Screw destiny. One minute they were barreling down the road, the next -- chaos. Gunfire ripped through the night, a deafening staccato. Not Spetsnaz. This was sloppy, desperate. The stink of gunpowder, a hot flash of pain as something tore past her ear.

Then, a hand on her mouth. Choking back a scream. A voice, a rasped whisper against her skin, "It's me, love. Hold on." But who--?

Heather. Impossible, reckless, and the most beautiful sight Anya had ever seen. A whirlwind of lethal efficiency, Heather carved a path of controlled chaos, Anya dragged in her wake. By the time they tumbled into the tree line, Volkova and her troops were left far behind.

"I thought..." Anya started, her voice rough with shock and relief.

"MI6 owed a favor, apparently," Heather said. There was a rough edge to her voice, the usual warmth strained. "Someone's getting a very fancy bottle of Scotch on our tab."

Anya let out a shaky laugh. Free, for now. But the game...the damn game was never really over. This was just a level cleared. Volkova waited -- a ghost from her past, now with a thirst for revenge all her own. Anya shivered, and it wasn't from the rain.