The rain hammered the windshield like distant gunfire. The wipers swept in steady rhythm across the black Mercedes Sprinter 3500 4x4, cutting through the mountain mist. Inside the cabin, the air was thick with the smell of wet leather, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline that never quite left Damir Volkov's blood.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the Glock on his thigh. Grey flat cap pulled low, short beard streaked with early grey, night-vision compatible glasses reflecting the dashboard glow. Code 47-19. Reaper. The man who never missed. The man who never questioned.
The encrypted sat-phone screen lit up on the dash mount.
He tapped accept without looking.
"Code 47-19. Target Exsel eliminated," he said, voice flat as polished steel. "Clean. No traces."
A low chuckle crackled through the speakers. The voice was smooth, cultured, the same one that had given him every order for the last thirteen years. Director Sergei Volodin. Face never shown on these calls. Always just a silhouette in shadow.
"As expected. Always reliable, Reaper."
Damir's jaw tightened slightly. Something in the tone felt… oily.
"Contract complete. Per our agreement, this was the last one. I'm out."
Another pause. Too long.
"Out?" Sergei repeated, almost amused. "Have you considered, 47-19… just how famous you've become? The underworld whispers your name like a curse. They only know one thing: Reaper. The ghost who never fails."
Damir's eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at?"
"Seven billion dollars," Sergei said slowly, savoring each syllable. "That's the offer on the table. Just to hand you over. Seven. Billion. Dollars. You understand what kind of money that is?"
The truck's tires hissed over wet asphalt. Damir's pulse didn't spike. It never did. But something cold uncoiled in his gut.
"Short version," he said.
"Simple. We sold you. The new buyer paid twenty times what we've invested in you over the years. A once-in-a-lifetime deal."
Damir's knuckles whitened on the wheel.
"You sold me."
"Yes," Sergei replied calmly. "But don't take it personally. Everyone knows how dangerous you are. Seventy-six contracts. One hundred percent success rate. What kind of jobs could they possibly give someone like that? The buyer wants a weapon. We… decided it's safer if that weapon never reaches them."
Damir's gaze flicked to the side mirrors, scanning the dark road behind him. Empty. Too empty.
"You're predictable, Reaper," Sergei continued. "We always knew one day you'd try to run. You know too much. About the Organization. About us. About everything."
"You said the contract would end after this one," Damir growled. "I followed every rule. Every term."
"47-19. Damir Volkov." Sergei's voice dropped to a whisper. "You know too much. We can't let you live."
Damir's breathing stayed even. He scanned the road ahead—sharp curve coming up, sheer drop on the right.
But Sergei wasn't finished.
"Oh, and one more thing, Damir. Something I forgot to mention years ago." A pause for effect. "Your parents' death? The 'accident'? It wasn't random. It was the first step in making you… ours."
The words hit like a hollow-point round.
Damir's vision tunneled. Rage boiled up, hot and black.
"You son of a bitch," he snarled. "Sergei. I will find you. I will—"
The front right tire detonated.
Not a normal blowout.
A sharp, explosive **BANG**—like a shotgun blast inside the wheel well—followed by the violent **whoosh** of air and shredded rubber whipping against the undercarriage. The massive Sprinter lurched hard right, rim screaming on asphalt, then biting into gravel.
Damir fought the wheel with everything he had. Muscles corded, veins bulging. But physics didn't care about skill.
The truck veered toward the guardrail. Metal shrieked as it clipped the barrier. Sparks flew.
Then the edge gave way.
The world tilted violently.
The Sprinter tipped, rolled once—glass exploding inward, solar panels ripping from the roof like foil—then twice. The heavy van became a tumbling steel boulder, smashing through pines, branches snapping like bones.
It bounced, spun, and finally slammed sideways into an ancient granite outcrop with a bone-shaking **CRUNCH**.
Silence fell. Rain pattered on twisted metal.
Inside the wreck, Damir hung upside down by the seatbelt, blood dripping from a deep gash above his eye. The cabin smelled of gasoline, burnt rubber, and ozone.
He coughed, tasting copper....
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the tall pines in soft golden shafts, warming the cracked dashboard and the blood drying on Damir's temple. He came to slowly, head throbbing, mouth tasting like iron and dirt.
He was still strapped into the driver's seat, the massive Sprinter tilted at a strange angle, one side buried in soft forest earth. The engine was dead. No ticking. No hum. Just the distant rustle of leaves and birds he didn't recognize.
Damir lifted his head. Blinked hard.
Trees. Endless trees. Not the sparse, rocky pines of the Caucasus. These were ancient, broad-trunked giants with bark like dragon scales, leaves shimmering with faint, unnatural emerald light.
He didn't remember this place.
His hand moved on instinct—reaching for the glove compartment. He popped it open, fingers closing around the familiar grip of the suppressed Glock 19. The weight felt right. Real. The only thing that still felt real.
He scanned through the shattered side windows. Nothing moved. No soldiers. No extraction team. No Sergei.
Just forest.
He waited. Thirty seconds. Sixty. Nothing.
Only then did he unbuckle and ease himself out of the cab. Boots hit soft moss. The air smelled wrong—too clean, too alive, laced with something sweet and electric he couldn't name.
He circled the Sprinter slowly, weapon up, barrel tracking shadows.
The van was… intact. Battered, yes. Dents, broken glass, torn solar panels hanging like wounded wings—but the frame held. No catastrophic fire. No explosion. It looked like it had been gently placed here instead of crashing down a mountainside.
He remembered the roll. The impacts. The final crunch.
This wasn't possible.
A voice broke the silence.
Male. Calm. Smooth. With the faintest trace of amusement.
"At last, you're awake."
Damir spun, Glock snapping up, sweeping the trees.
Nothing.
He backed against the side of the van, using it as cover.
"Looking for someone?" the voice asked, mild and mocking.
"Who are you?" Damir's tone was ice. "Show yourself. Now. Or the next thing you hear will be suppressed 9mm."
A soft chuckle—coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"Oh my. Straight to threats. I like that. You really are the Reaper."
Damir's eyes narrowed. "Name."
"Sayes," the voice replied, pronouncing it like "Sigh-ess". "Or, if you prefer formality… System Entity Series. But Sayes will do just fine."
Damir's mind raced. No record of anyone by that name in the Organization. No codename. No handler.
"Who sent you? Sergei? The buyer? Talk."
"Relax," Sayes said, almost gentle. "You won't find me. Because I'm not somewhere you can point a gun at. My voice… is already inside your head. Recorded directly into your memory engrams during transit."
Damir's free hand touched his temple. The gash was still wet, but no device. No implant scar.
"Impossible."
"In your world, maybe," Sayes answered. "But the fall you remember—the crash, the betrayal—it was the perfect moment. I pulled you through before the final impact. And while you were unconscious, I installed a few… updates."
Damir lowered the Glock slightly—not surrender, just recalibration.
"You're the reason I'm here."
"Correct."
"Where the hell am I?"
"Exactly where you need to be," Sayes said. "A parallel world. Not Earth. A place where mana once flowed like rivers and is now fading like a dying star. Midgard, they call it here. Or at least, the few who still remember the old names do."
Damir let out a short, humorless laugh. "Another planet. Parallel dimension. You expect me to buy that?"
"You already feel it," Sayes replied. "The air. The light. The way your skin prickles like static. You're breathing something your lungs were never meant to breathe. And yet… you're adapting. Fast."
Damir glanced up. The sky was too blue. Too clear. No contrails. No distant roar of jets.
He exhaled slowly.
"So you bought me," he said, voice flat. "Seven billion dollars for a broken-down assassin. What do you want?"
"Exploration," Sayes answered simply. "I need someone to map this world. Observe. Learn. Report. You're uniquely qualified—unattached, resourceful, and you already know how to survive when everything wants you dead."
Damir stared at the treeline.
"I'm not your scout. I'm not your dog."
"You're whatever I need you to be," Sayes said, tone still calm. "But here's the good news: you're free now. No more handlers. No more contracts. No Sergei. Just this world… and me."
Damir looked back at the battered Sprinter—his home, his arsenal, his last piece of the old life.
"And if I say no?"
A long silence.
Then Sayes, almost kindly:
"Then you survive alone. With whatever ammunition, fuel, and food you have left. On a world that doesn't run on diesel or dollars. Your choice, Reaper."
Damir chambered a round with a quiet metallic click.
"I'll think about it."
He turned back toward the open door of the van.
The voice followed him, soft as a whisper.
"Take your time. The world isn't going anywhere."
But something in the tone told Damir it already was