The city of Tarkov was dead, but it refused to stay quiet.
Somewhere beyond the ruined skyline, a distant burst of automatic fire shattered the night, echoing through concrete canyons and hollow streets. The sound rolled across the snow, sharp and metallic, before fading into the wind like it had never been there at all.
Alexei Morozov pressed his back against the frozen wall of an abandoned convenience store, breathing through his teeth to muffle the sound. His breath formed thin clouds that vanished in the cold air. The dim glow of a burning car flickered across his face — pale, hollow eyes reflecting orange light.
He counted the seconds.
One… two… three.
Silence again.
He peeked around the corner. The street was empty except for a corpse lying half-buried in snow — another scav who hadn't made it through the night. His rifle, an old AK-74N, hung loose from his grip. The man's gas mask was cracked, and frost covered the lenses like white cataracts.
Alex moved closer, crouching low. Every motion was deliberate — quiet, efficient, instinctive. He wasn't the same person he had been a few months ago. That version of him — the one who complained about exam schedules, forgot to eat breakfast, and worried about grades — had died long before this man froze.
He unclipped the scav's backpack, opening it carefully. Inside were cans of food, a few loose rounds, and a folded paper wrapped in plastic. He recognized the mark immediately — Prapor's seal.
"Another courier," Alex muttered under his breath, voice dry and tired. "Guess I'm not the only one running errands."
He pocketed the letter, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and started moving again.
The snow was thick now, falling in slow spirals, each flake glowing faintly under the distant fires. The world was painted in gray and red — metal and blood, smoke and snow. Tarkov had become a graveyard of greed, and he was just one more ghost walking through it.
He crossed through a broken alleyway behind The Golden Swallow Café, the same place he and his classmates used to hang out after lectures. The windows were shattered now. Inside, tables were overturned, and the smell of mold and gunpowder hung heavy.
He remembered the laughter — Lena teasing him for always ordering black coffee, Mikhail bragging about his new graphics card, and the soft hum of music that came from the jukebox near the counter.
Now, the jukebox was gone. The counter was burned.
Even the walls seemed to remember what had happened here.
Alex knelt and brushed the snow off a faded photo pinned to the floor with a bullet casing. It was a group picture — students posing in front of the university gate. He saw his younger self there, smiling awkwardly, sunlight touching his face. For a moment, he let himself stare.
Then the wind picked up, carrying the faint smell of cordite.
Reality returned like a slap.
He folded the photo, slipped it into his vest, and moved on.
The radio in his earpiece crackled.
"Courier, you read? It's Prapor."
Alex froze. His hand instinctively moved to lower the volume.
"The drop should've been there two hours ago. You got eyes on the package?"
He pressed the button on his vest mic. "Got it. Courier's dead. I'm taking over."
"Understood. Same payment, same rules. Keep your head down — USEC patrols are sweeping near Factory."
The line went silent again, leaving only the soft hiss of static.
Prapor's voice always sounded the same — steady, calm, like a man who'd already buried every emotion that mattered. He was the first person who gave Alex a reason to keep moving. The first to treat him like someone who could survive.
Alex hated him for that.
He reached the warehouse by midnight — a gray block of steel and concrete sitting in the heart of the industrial zone. The snow crunched beneath his boots, loud enough to make his skin crawl. Every corner of Tarkov was a death trap now. USECs hunted for data, BEAR squads raided for control, and scavs killed for scraps.
Everyone was looking for something.
Everyone was ready to kill for it.
Inside the warehouse, the air was cold and stale. Empty crates lined the walls. In the center, a single floodlight hung from the ceiling, powered by a sputtering generator. Beneath it stood a man in a dark coat, his rifle slung low and his beard coated with frost.
"Courier's late," the man said without looking up.
Alex recognized the voice immediately Skier.
"Dead," Alex replied. "I took over."
Skier turned, studying him for a moment before smirking. "And here I thought students these days were useless."
"Guess we adapt fast."
He tossed the letter across the floor. Skier caught it midair, tore it open, and scanned it quickly. His eyes gleamed in the light.
"Good. You just bought yourself another few days of not starving." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of roubles, and slid it over. "You need ammo or meds, talk to Therapist. She's still keeping the civvies patched up near the medical wing of the Interchange Mall. Don't ask me why she's still doing it — woman's either a saint or suicidal."
Alex pocketed the cash. "What's next?"
Skier grinned. "Next? You keep surviving, student. And if you find anything with a TerraGroup mark on it, bring it to me first. Prapor doesn't need to know everything."
Alex didn't respond. He just nodded and turned to leave.
Outside, the snowfall had stopped. The night was still, almost peaceful. In the distance, the moonlight reflected off broken glass and twisted metal, giving Tarkov a ghostly glow.
Alex looked up, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him.
He'd stopped keeping track of the days weeks ago. Maybe months.
Every morning he woke up wondering if this was the one where he finally made it out. And every night, he fell asleep wondering if there was even an "outside" left to reach.
But for now, he walked. That's all you could do in Tarkov.
Walk. Breathe. Survive.
As he passed a wrecked car, a faint light flickered in the corner of his eye — a cracked digital billboard still running off emergency power. The image was frozen, looping endlessly:
"Welcome to Tarkov – The Future of Industry."
Alex stopped, staring at it for a long moment. Then he laughed — a low, bitter sound that echoed across the street.
"Yeah," he muttered, "the future looks great."
He pulled his hood tighter and disappeared into the darkness, the hum of the billboard fading behind him, swallowed by the wind.
In Tarkov, there were no heroes.
Only survivors who hadn't died yet.
And Alexei Morozov intended to be one of them.