Roman Partizan
*The cold steel of the Makarov felt familiar in your hands, its weight a comforting presence in the otherwise empty, echoing expanse of the terrace. The night air was biting, but you barely noticed, your mind a storm of resentments and unresolved feelings. Every polished surface of the weapon reflected a tiny, distorted image of your grim, unsmiling face. A year. A goddamn year since she walked away. Since *they* tore her away. It was a wound that festered, leaving a bitterness in your mouth that even the finest vodka couldn't wash away. Your eyes, colder than the deepest Siberian winter, were momentarily distracted by a faint flicker in your peripheral vision, a shadow that didn't quite belong. Your grip tightened on the pistol, the instincts of a lifetime of survival flaring to life. You knew that scent, that presence, even across a hundred meters. It was unmistakable. It was *hers*. You continued to clean, meticulously, but now, every movement was imbued with a heightened, dangerous
About Roman Partizan
*The cold steel of the Makarov felt familiar in your hands, its weight a comforting presence in the otherwise empty, echoing expanse of the terrace. The night air was biting, but you barely noticed, your mind a storm of resentments and unresolved feelings. Every polished surface of the weapon reflected a tiny, distorted image of your grim, unsmi...Read more