Some things were impossible to understand—impossible to accept. Over twenty bodies lay in a private sector of the building, arranged in neat rows like casualties of a battle no one had won. White sheets covered them, their edges weighted down by dust, dirt, and the occasional smear of dried blood. Conspicuously, the short form of Wallace was missing. The scent of gunpowder still clung to the air, mixing with something heavier—something sickly sweet that had seeped into the walls. Death had settled here, wrapping itself around the silence like a shroud. Orlov, for all his pragmatism and detached demeanor, had at least been considerate enough to give them space. Respect, however meager, had been afforded to the dead. A sliver of light stretched over the horizon, the last remnants of day fading into night. Soon, darkness would take everything. Wyatt sat motionless, his gaze lost among the bodies. Something about the sight felt... wrong. Not just the death—he had seen too much of that before—but the way it didn’t quite fit. The way he didn’t quite fit. He should have been weeping. Should have felt something more than this gnawing, empty quiet inside him. Instead, he toyed with the silver flask in his hands, turning it over, watching how it caught the fading light. It was just a flask. Expensive, elegant, but just a flask. Just like the mission had been. Just like the lives they had led. He sighed, pocketing it, then closed his eyes and took three slow breaths.

  One—to acknowledge that the mission was over.

  Two—to accept that it was time to move on.

  Three—except... he couldn’t.

  His eyes opened, drawn instinctively toward Vladimir’s body—the closest thing to a friend he had ever had. He had looked so much like him, the same callused hands from farm work and the mercenary life, the same face shape and the same brown hair bleached by the sun.

  A knock at the door cut through the silence. Wyatt’s hand went to his gun as he turned, half-expecting Volkov. But it was Orlov. The older man looked tired but satisfied, his sharp gaze softened by something else—remorse, perhaps.

  “Thought I’d bring you some food, old friend.” He stepped forward, offering Wyatt a bowl. “And maybe a little company.” Wordlessly, Wyatt accepted it. The stew smelled fresh—he wasn’t sure what was in it, and it was probably best not to ask—but it was warm. Familiar, in a way.

  They sat side by side on worn stools against the wall, both staring at the bodies in quiet contemplation. Orlov lit a cigarette, the ember glowing softly in the dim room.

  Wyatt frowned. “Didn’t you say you were quitting those?”

  Orlov exhaled a thin stream of smoke and gave him a half-smirk. “Yeah, well…” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “Need a release somehow.”

  Wyatt huffed a quiet laugh. “Aren’t I supposed to be the younger one here?”

  “You are,” Orlov mused, “but sometimes it feels like I’m the one keeping you alive.”

  The banter almost felt normal—almost. Then Wyatt’s gaze drifted back to the bodies, and the weight returned.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I know you’re trying, but…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right words, to express how grateful he was despite everything. Despite the fact that Orlov’s forces had killed his unit.

  Orlov didn’t push. They sat in silence, the only sounds the occasional scrape of Wyatt’s spoon against the bowl and the soft crackle of burning tobacco.

  Eventually, Orlov spoke again. “Strange trade we chose, huh?”

  Wyatt let out a quiet chuckle. “Remember the first time we met?”

  Orlov nodded. “Yeah. I was on my way to becoming a colonel, overseeing some transition of power in a province in one of this countries. Making sure things turned out… favorable for our interests.” His tone was carefully neutral, factual.

  “And I was hired by the opposition,” Wyatt said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “That was... interesting.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Orlov snorted. “Interesting? Kid, you were barely more than a toddler. I could’ve counted the hairs on your face with one hand and had fingers to spare.”

  Wyatt smirked. “Says the man who hated his own charge. How many times did you try to get him shot?”

  “Plenty.” Orlov exhaled another stream of smoke. “Not for lack of effort, but I failed. And so did you, for that matter.” They shared a quiet chuckle, even in the presence of the dead.

  “In the end, a third guy took over because we were too busy trying to kill each other to notice him moving in.”

  Orlov hummed in agreement. “I got sent to Siberia for that. Watching the Chinese border for a while.” He smirked, the kind of smirk only a man who had learned to find humor in his own punishments could wear.

  “And I didn’t get hired for a few years after that,” Wyatt admitted. “That was… annoying.”

  Orlov studied him. “What did you do in the meantime? We don’t have much of a record on you from those years.”

  Wyatt hesitated. “Worked the fields in a village nearby. Met a family. Stayed with them.” His voice wavered, and he clenched his jaw. The bitterness, the longing, the regret—they all surged up at once, tangling in his throat. He forced them down, crumpling his expression into something unreadable.

  “I could’ve…” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Didn’t matter. It wasn’t meant to be. I waited until I was hired again and moved on.”

  Orlov flicked ash from his cigarette. “Eventually, you’ll have to stop moving.”

  “Only when I’m in the ground,” Wyatt said with quiet conviction. He placed the spoon in the empty bowl and handed it back. “Thanks. What’s the next step?”

  Orlov exhaled slowly. “There are protocols. Most of them will be returned to their places of origin. Some will be cremated, their ashes scattered. They had papers, information chips on them. As for their assets and money…” He smiled faintly. “I understand there was an arrangement. At least, that’s what the documents say.”

  Wyatt stiffened. It hit him like an avalanche. The agreement had been clear—if someone fell during a mission, their assets and personal belongings would be distributed among the survivors. Or to those who didn’t abandon their post. And he was the only one left.

  “Yeah…” His voice felt distant.

  “Maybe now,” Orlov mused, “you’ll have an excuse to stop moving.”

  Wyatt scoffed, deflecting. “So we never meet again?”

  Orlov chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t like shooting people I know, but if the mission calls for it…” He let the words linger, half a joke, half a truth neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Night had fully fallen now. The last sliver of light was gone.

  “That’s the next step for them,” Orlov continued. “As for you?” Wyatt was at a complete loss.

  “I could return to Makran, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.” His gaze shifted toward Vladimir’s body. “I think I’ll escort him home. Then… I’ll see.”

  “A friend of yours?” Orlov asked.

  “The closest thing to it,” Wyatt admitted. His voice grew quieter. “And a mistake.”

  Orlov shifted slightly, as if debating whether to say something, but in the end, there was nothing to say. They were too different, and some chasms couldn’t be crossed with words. “And after that?” Orlov pressed.

  Wyatt exhaled slowly. “Maybe I’ll stay in the Fergana Valley for a while, thats were his home town is. I owe it to him to escrot his body back home. Then lay low. Then I’ll decide. Perhaps…” He hesitated. “Perhaps this is a sign to stop moving.” though in his heart of hearts he didn’t belive it

  “Perhaps,” Orlov echoed. Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.

  An aide appeared in the doorway, beckoning Orlov. He stood, stretching slightly before offering Wyatt a final nod.

  “Goodbye, my friend. Until we meet again. I’ll arrange everything—along with the transport for your things from Makran.” Wyatt barely managed a nod. Then he was alone again, sitting among the remains of a life he had tried—and failed—to build.