General Jamal sits alone in his cabin, swallowed by half-light and a silence so sharp it feels radioactive. Only the faint pulsing of a screen reminds him that time hasn't stopped entirely.
His reflection swims on the matte-black surface of the tablet — a tired, haunted face, traced with fine fractures of tension and doubt. His fingers scroll through reports, but the words smear together, turning into meaningless static.
None of it matters. Not until I know one thing...
Who?
Who among them is the traitor?
Vikar?
Too absurd. He's been here since the first day. He fought. He bled. He's not a double player. It can't be him.
Operator Daniel?
His behavior is odd. Too quiet. Too cautious. Eyes like someone always calculating the escape route. But... he's too small. Not a leader. Not a puppet master.
But then come the thoughts he doesn't want. Thoughts of Yulia. Of Alex. No longer hypotheses—just a cold whisper brushing the back of his neck. A shadow in the corner you only notice when it's already too late.
Too perfect. Too convenient.
Yulia...
She didn't just enter his life.
She stormed it.
First came the flirtation — subtle. Then the glance. That smile of hers — warm, disarming, like a sunset on Mercury that hides fire just beneath the horizon. Then came the night. Then came the favors. Then came the tasks.
And then — the chips.
Who taught them how to remove military-grade control implants? How did a group of private contractors bypass security protocols that even command fears to touch?
Who opened those doors for them?
What if she's the enemy?
What if all of this—was a stage play?
He grits his teeth. The pressure needles into his flesh like cold steel under the skin, spreading through his blood, becoming part of his body. His fingers tremble with fury—
but there's no release. The rage is caged inside him, like an animal chewing its own bones.
And then—
the click of the lock.
He goes still. Doesn't turn. Every muscle coiled like a spring.
He already knows who's come in.
He feels her.
"Alone again?" Yulia's voice is soft. Almost playful.
Like silk brushing skin scalded by anxiety.
But beneath that gentleness—
danger.
Subtle. Precise.
Like a blade in the dark, held just below your throat.
He turns sharply.
She stands in the doorway.
Yulia.
The lamp above the desk casts her figure in a halo of flickering gold. She's all silhouette and shimmer, like a vision drawn in heat. Her smile is light. Almost tender.
But her eyes—
Black.
Deep.
Wells with no bottom.
Full of your fears, your doubts, your buried wants.
Every step she takes is like venom in vapor form—sweet, slow, inescapable.
He tenses.
"Why are you here?" His voice rasps, cutting through his throat like glass. He tries to keep his distance.
But already, he feels it—his will slipping.
Yulia tilts her head.
Her hair—liquid night—slides over her shoulders.
"Aren't you happy to see me?" Her voice flows, warm and invasive, slipping past defenses like a whispered spell.
His heart stumbles. Breath shortens.
She takes a step closer.
Stop her. Close your eyes. Walk away…
But he stands there.
Anchored.
Hypnotized by her shadow.
"I can leave…" she offers, gentle and sly, like a predator indulging its prey. There's a childlike mischief at the corner of her lips—
but the eyes stay cold.
She's laying a trap.
Delicate. Invisible.
A choice that doesn't exist.
And he gives in.
The steel in his gaze dissolves.
His mask cracks.
Inside—everything caves in.
He can smell her now.
Warm. Disquieting.
Bitter-sweet like something burning slow.
His head spins like zero-gravity.
He's no longer the general.
He's just a man who's lost his anchor.
She steps closer.
Her hands rest lightly on his shoulders.
Soft. But there's command in her touch.
She looks into his eyes—
not with affection, but calculation.
Taking him apart.
Searching for the crack.
And then—
she kisses him.
Deep.
Merciless.
As if pulling out whatever was still alive inside him.
The world blinks out.
The cabin dissolves.
The documents.
The fears.
The war.
Gone.
All that remains is her.
Her lips.
Her hands.
Her breath.
He clutches her—desperate, urgent—like a drowning man clinging to the last buoy.
He doesn't want to let go.
He can't.
She laughs—softly. Barely a sound.
She pulls back for a second, looking up at him with that crooked, dangerous smile that always made him surrender.
He breathes hard.
Lowers his head.
Holds her tight.
He feels her warmth through the fabric, seeping in, melting down what's left of his mind.
"Of course I'm happy…" he whispers, hollow.
A confession.
I've lost.
And everything else—fades.
Not Vikar.
Not Daniel.
Not Alex.
Not the war.
Not the station.
Not fear.
Only her.
Only Yulia.
And that enigmatic, predatory smile—
hiding something far darker than he dares name.