The market smelled of sweat, gun oil, and desperation. Mikhail moved through the stalls, clutching the small pouch of Premiums like it was his beating heart. Twenty rounds — the difference between living, starving, or freezing.
He stopped at a gunsmith's stall first. Rusted Kalash rifles and battered shotguns hung on hooks, each tagged with a strip of yellow cloth. The smith barely looked up as Mikhail approached.
"What do you want, boy?"
Mikhail hesitated, then spoke. "Something reliable. Small. I don't need fancy, just something that works."
The smith's laugh was dry. "That's what everyone wants." He plucked a compact weapon from the rack — a Bastard gun, its frame ugly, patched with wire. "Cheap. Eats 5.45, jams like a whore's throat. Ten Premiums."
Mikhail grimaced. Half his fortune for junk. He shook his head.
The smith studied him, then leaned down, pulling a different weapon from under the counter. A sawed-off double-barrel, its grip wrapped in black tape. "Not fancy. But this? This never jams. One pull, one dead dog. Five Premiums."
Mikhail weighed it in his hands. Heavy, crude, but solid. It felt right. He slid five Premiums across. The smith grunted approval.
Next came armor. His jacket was barely holding together. At a tailor's stall, he found a reinforced coat, patched with bits of Kevlar and lined with scavenged plating. Barely better than what he wore, but still protection. Eight Premiums gone.
That left seven. Enough for filters, food, and one precious thing: a handful of bolts wrapped in cloth, stamped steel scavenged from Metro rails.
He walked away lighter — in bullets, in weight — but for the first time, he felt like a stalker. A crude shotgun slung at his side, a coat that might turn teeth, and a pouch that no longer jingled.
The market noises swelled behind him. He didn't look back. The Zone was waiting.