The steel gate loomed ahead like the mouth of a beast. The guards above shouted down, rifles tracking the ruins beyond. Mikhail raised his hand, gasping through the cracked filter of his mask, and the gate began its slow, grinding crawl open.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with smoke and the smell of boiled mushrooms. Lanterns cast flickering light over waiting stalkers, gamblers, and the scavenger kids who always hung around hoping for dropped cartridges or scraps.
Mikhail staggered through, boots coated in mud and blood, his jacket torn where the blind dog's teeth had met the ring's shield. He could still feel the phantom pressure of jaws around his arm.
The older stalkers at the checkpoint laughed at first.
"Didn't think you'd crawl back, kid."
"Bet he pissed himself the second he saw a dog."
"Check his pack — probably dragged back a dead rat, calling it loot."
Mikhail ignored them. His hands shook as he fumbled at his pouch, unsealing the lead-lined case. The artifact's glow spilled out, faint but unmistakable. The laughter faltered.
The nearest stalker leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "Well I'll be damned… that's a real pull."
The artifact pulsed, molten-glass light painting their faces. Conversations died around the gate. Men who'd ignored him hours ago now stared with the quiet hunger of wolves.
One of the veterans, a scarred man with a rust-red beard, gave a short, rough chuckle. "Zone didn't chew you up after all." He clapped Mikhail's shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "Looks like we've got another bastard lucky enough to call himself a stalker."
Not respect. Not yet. But not dismissal either.
Mikhail swallowed, sliding the artifact back into its pouch. His journal pressed tight against his chest beneath his jacket, his mother's note close to his heart. He felt the ring cool again, as if the Zone itself had decided — just this once — to spare him.
He didn't smile. He didn't brag. He simply walked deeper into the Metro, past the stares, into the smoke-filled market where artifacts became bullets, bullets became life, and legends began.
Behind him, the stalkers muttered in low voices.
"Kid's still alive."
"Brought back fire in his hands."
"Maybe the Zone wants him around."
And though Mikhail didn't look back, he felt the words following him like a shadow.