Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Three consecutive shots shattered the silence, only to be swallowed by the forest as if they had never been.
Then… stillness.
Behind a frozen tree, Natasha Kozlova pressed her hands firmly over her mouth.
Twenty years old, and she had never known that death looked like this from so close. A man dressed in clothes that didn't belong in these woods—his long red hair splaying across the snow like a crimson stain. His body was motionless. The other man stood over him, kicked him once, spat, and then walked away with the casual gait of someone finishing a mundane chore.
She didn't move.
Fear had paralyzed her for several agonizing moments. Something deep inside her was still replaying the scene, trying to comprehend how curiosity had come with such a heavy price.
One Hour Earlier
The sun was dipping below the horizon when Natasha stood before the old wooden cabin. Boris and Sofia had come out to see her off. A couple in their late seventies, their eyes held a quiet, lingering sadness.
"Thank you, child," Sofia said in a frail voice. "The medicine, the blankets… I don't know what we would do without you."
"It's my duty, Auntie," Natasha replied softly.
Boris, however, kept his gaze fixed on the frozen ground. "You're kinder to us than our own daughter, Natasha," he said, his voice cracking. "She never visits. I fear we'll die here alone, and no one will find us until it's too late."
Natasha felt a lump form in her throat. She took his cold hand and forced a smile. "Uncle, am I not like a daughter to you?" Before he could respond, she added, "Besides, your daughter called me last night. She said she's coming soon; she's just been busy with her new husband."
Boris's eyes widened. He turned to his wife and repeated the news loudly, as she struggled with her hearing. Sofia placed a hand over her heart. "Thank God… she's alright."
Natasha hugged the elderly couple and set off.
The eight dogs carved a path through the snow, their breath rising like plumes of white steam in the freezing air. The forest was familiar to her, and the silence was her usual companion.
Then, she saw the lights.
Distantly, on the main highway, two black cars were parked in the middle of the road. There was no obvious reason for them to be there.
What are they doing here? Near our home? In this cold? At this hour?
She scanned her surroundings, tied the dogs to a safe spot, and began to creep forward, placing her feet carefully in the snow so that not a single crunch would betray her.
Two men stood in a clearing between the trees. One held a suppressed pistol. The other was unarmed, hands raised, wearing expensive, formal attire that was far too thin for this weather. Long red hair fell to his shoulders. His face was sharp and scarred, though his features were blurred by the shadows.
They spoke in English.
Natasha was actually quite good at English, but the distance made it difficult to catch everything. She only managed to pick up a few names: Ryan. Sarah. She heard other words she couldn't quite piece together, but the tone was unmistakable—a sharp, aggressive edge to the armed man's voice. She heard the unarmed man shouting back, telling the gunman to shut up, calling him a liar.
Then, the unarmed man lunged.
Sudden. Without warning. With every ounce of strength he possessed, he went for the gunman's throat. Both bodies hit the snow, a tangled mess of limbs. She couldn't tell who was winning.
Then, three shots in rapid succession.
The sound made Natasha's heart stop. Her hands trembled as she clutched her mouth, trying to stifle any sound. Shot after shot tore through the forest's peace.
Then, silence.
The bodies separated. The gunman stood up slowly, brushing snow off his coat. He looked down at the fallen man with absolute indifference, as if he were looking at a piece of trash. He kicked him once, spat, and turned toward the car.
The door slammed shut. The cars sped off into the darkness, swallowed by the night.
The red-haired man remained on the snow. Still.
Natasha stayed behind her tree, her conscience wrestling with her terror in the dead silence. Leave him. You saw nothing. But was that what a real police officer would do?
She took a long, shaky breath and stepped out from the shadows.
She saw him up close for the first time. His white shirt was stained with three distinct blooms of blood under his dark suit. His hands were blue. His red hair fanned out across the white frost. Moonlight hit his face directly; his pale skin seemed to reflect the glow rather than absorb it. His features were sharp and symmetrical, handsome in a way that was hard to ignore even in this state. Below his lower right lip was a small, dark mole.
His blue eyes were wide open, staring at the sky. Empty.
She knelt beside him, placing her fingers on his neck. One second. Two. Three. Four.
Nothing.
She gently closed his eyes, looking away. A few tears began to trace slow paths down her cheeks. It was the first time she had ever seen a corpse. Here, in the snow and darkness, all alone.
She stood up and wiped her face. She would take him to the nearest town. She would report it to the police. She would be a witness. Even if it was dangerous, it was her duty.
She ran back to her sled.
And when she returned… she froze.
The body was gone.
Bloodstains still marred the snow, but the man had vanished. She stared, her eyes darting around until she saw them: footprints. Irregular, staggering steps that led for a few meters before ending in a collapse.
There he was, a few paces away, lying on his stomach in a completely different position.
Impossible. Was someone else here? Did they move him? She looked around frantically, but there was no one. Only the silence—the silence she was once used to, but which now terrified her.
She stayed rooted to the spot for a moment before slowly approaching him. With a trembling hand, she rolled him onto his back. She looked at his chest. The dried blood was still on the shirt. But the three holes…
They were gone.
Only three small, pink scars remained.
She scrambled back a step. Then another. Her breathing became labored. She stared at him, searching for a single logical explanation. She found none.
Mustering her courage, she reached out and touched his neck again. One second.
A pulse. Faint, but there.
She yanked her hand back, clutching it with her other hand as if trying to erase the sensation. She looked at his face. He looked as if he were merely sleeping.
Should I take him to the hospital? But what would I tell them? The wounds are gone. There are no wounds. My father… yes, Father first. He was a soldier; he'll know what to do.
She took one deep breath. "Okay, Natasha. Do this."
She dragged him toward the sled. He was surprisingly heavy for his lean frame. She lifted him, covering him with blankets; his body was cold as ice. She gave the command to the dogs, and the sled tore through the frozen woods toward the only light in the night: the distant glow of the Kozlov family home.
[In front of the Kozlov residence]
Ivan Kozlov was shoveling snow when he heard the sled. A man in his fifties with broad shoulders and a thick grey beard. He looked up. The sled was approaching with unusual speed.
"Dad!" Natasha jumped off before the sled had even stopped. "I found a man in the forest. He's alive. His heart is beating, but—"
"Calm down," Ivan said, his voice steady. He looked at the bundled figure and wasted no time. He carried him straight inside.
The house was warm, smelling of beetroot soup. "Olga!" Ivan barked. "Towels and clothes. Fast!"
Olga appeared from the kitchen. She saw the body. "My God, who—"
"No time."
Ivan placed him in the bathtub, filling it with lukewarm water. He began to strip away the frozen, wet clothes. The suit. The shirt. The expensive leather shoes.
Then, he stopped.
Three blood-stained holes in the white shirt. But on the skin beneath… Only pink scars.
"What is this?" Ivan whispered, staring at the man in bewilderment.
The warm water worked its slow magic. Color returned to the man's face. His breathing deepened.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Then, they began to appear. Lines on his chest, forming as if being etched by an invisible blade. Ivan watched in silence. They started faint—a dark red light bleeding from the edges of the lines—and then they spread. Delicate, intricate lines carving themselves into the skin before his very eyes, as if an unseen hand were painting on a living canvas.
They glowed and faded. Pulsing in perfect rhythm with his heart.
Ivan took a step back until his shoulders hit the doorframe. Fifty years of life—the Siberian forests, the army, the war—had taught him much. But he had never seen anything like this.
The lines were completing themselves—a glowing network of deep, dark crimson stretching from his chest to his shoulders. Then, the light died out as suddenly as it had appeared, turning into ordinary-looking black tattoos.
Total silence filled the bathroom, save for the sound of water trickling slowly.
Then, the man snapped his eyes open.
Violently. As if something from the inside had forced its way out.
To be continued…