MOSCOW, 2019 - FLASHBACK
Dawn bled gray over the Moskva River, fog coiling like a noose. Aslan and his Chechen crew roared back from a drop-off, fastboats slicing black water, flush with rubles and bloodlust. Laughter echoed, AKs rattling, vodka splashing under a bruised sky.
The mood soured as a shape drifted close—a lone body, arms splayed like rotted vines, flesh swollen and slick, gleaming with river filth. No wounds, just a ghost, face shadowed like burned parchment.
Aslan cursed, boat slowing. "Polish," he grunted, eyeing the man's coat—cheap, Warsaw cut.
They hauled him aboard, water sloshing, checking pockets—a soaked matchbook, nothing else.
A man pressed his wrist, brow furrowing. A faint pulse flickered, weak as dying ember. "Back to the docks,"
Aslan barked, engines screaming, the Polish enigma limp in their grip.
MOSCOW, PRESENT - AFTERNOON
Two SUVs growled into Lev's compound, tires chewing and spitting gravel .
Kuznetsov stepped out, bull-necked, scars glinting, his men fanning behind—hard eyes, holsters heavy.
Lev waited, stone-faced, son and daughter at his flanks, men at the gates and shadows, but no Viktor. The air stank of diesel and distrust.
Kuznetsov raised his hand, voice rough. "Peace, Lev. I take your terms—docks, north, split clean."
Lev's eyes narrowed, TT hidden but itching. "Why the flip, Kuznetsov? You spat on me before."
Kuznetsov shrugged, grim. "Your boys are gutted in the streets. Chechens'll come for mine next. I need allies, not graves." His men shifted, tense, selling the lie.
Lev's jaw loosened, suspicion lingering but greed winning. "Good. Find who's carving my men. Let's end them together."
Kuznetsov nodded, smirking faintly. "Agreed." Hands shook, deal sealed in bad blood.
Lev turned as Kuznetsov's cars rolled out, voice low. "Where's Viktor?"
Nastya stepped forward, blade idle. "I'll check."
Lev's stare bored into her. "Find him. And tail Kuznetsov's dogs—every move, I want it."
VIKTOR'S FLOP, EVENING
Viktor slumped in his room, air thick with ghosts. His mind churned—GROM, his team's screams as the convoy erupted, bodies charred to bone.
His eyes flicked to the laptop, Files spilled across the screen—bank transfers from a shell company "VaCorp to Lev's offshore account.
Audio logs of Lev's voice: "The cocky GROM team goes into extinction today, you Americans should handle the rest."
Rage burned his chest—Lev was done, and anyone in the way would bleed.
He grabbed the burner phone, one number haunting the log. Fingers trembling, he dialed. One ring, two—"Who's this?"
Viktor froze, eyes wide. Rook? His dead teammate's growl—impossible, a trick of grief.
A knock shattered the haze. He cut the call, snatched his Makarov, and crept to the door, heart hammering. Cracking it, he saw Nastya, eyes sharp.
She flinched at the gun, stepping in, scanning the room.
The laptop glowed, files open. Her voice dropped, deadly. "you hit Grisha's place. You cleared his rig, but I pulled scraps— I knew you'd cross us."
Viktor's hand twitched, skeptical.
"Relax soldier, if I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Lev's reckless—greed and blood, no vision. I want him gone, Viktor. You get revenge, I get the Bratva. Peace follows—if you're in."
"You're giving up your father too easily. What about Dmitri, your brother?"
Nastya's eyes hardened. "Even the crew's whispering—Lev's got us on a death path. They'll follow me. Once Dmitri sees the men back at me, he'll pump his brakes." She leaned closer, voice steel.
Viktor's gut screamed—trust her? A snake's game, maybe. But Lev's files burned brighter.
"Alright," he said, voice tight, playing along. "Chechens Will kill us on sight, though—don't care who we're against."
Nastya nodded, grim. "We'll plan. First, we tail Kuznetsov—Lev's orders." Her smirk hid knives, alliance thin as glass.
MOSCOW STREETS, NIGHT
Viktor and Nastya crouched in a battered sedan, parked in a shadowed alley, eyes locked on a warehouse lot. Kuznetsov's men and Bratva soldiers worked a pickup—two vans idling, Kuznetsov's crew—faces hard, loading crates into the vans.
The alliance looked solid, but Viktor's gut churned—deals this clean were traps.
Nastya's fingers tapped her blade, tension choking the air.
Kuznetsov's vans rolled out, engines growling.
Nastya waited, breath steady, then gunned the sedan, tailing at a distance, headlights off, Moscow's decay blurring past—rusted hulks, blood-streaked gutters.
WAREHOUSE LOT, NIGHT
They reached a derelict warehouse, silos looming like tombstones.
Nastya parked out of sight, a blind spot with a clear view.
Viktor's Makarov rested heavily, eyes narrowed.
Kuznetsov emerged from the warehouse, face carved in shadow.
He checked the vans' boots—crates of rifles and powder—fingers lingering, calculating. He pulled his phone, dialed, voice low, words swallowed by the wind.
Viktor leaned forward, whispering, "Who's he calling?" Nastya's jaw clenched, no answer—doubt gnawed at them both.
LEV'S COMPOUND, DUSK
Lev stood alone, TT spinning, study reeking of ash and vodka. Kuznetsov's deal gnawed—too easy, too clean. His phone buzzed, texts unanswered, empire cracking. He muttered a curse to himself. The Chechens' shadow loomed, blood in the air.
CHECHEN SAFEHOUSE, NIGHT
Zara sat in a dim office, smoke curling, Aslan at her side, the Polish man—pale, alive now—watching silent. Crates of C4 and rifles lined the walls, air thick with cordite and hate.
"Lev's crumbling," Zara hissed, eyes fire. "We close in—bleed him for my sister, throat cut in his bed. For my lover, For GROM's men, blown to ash in his game." Her fist clenched, knuckles white. "He dies screaming."
Aslan grinned, knife gleaming. The Pole nodded, eyes distant but loyal. Zara leaned back, voice a whisper. "Now we wait."
MOSCOW PRECINCT, MIDNIGHT
In a grimy precinct room, three detectives hunched over a board, coffee sour, air stale with cigarette ash.
Photos pinned up—a Bratva lieutenant, a Chechen enforcer, Lev's glare, Nastya's smirk, Dmitri's scowl, and side shots of Viktor, eyes haunted. Red strings crisscrossed, mapping Moscow's bloodbath.
"This carnage is a shitshow," Detective Volkov growled, tie loose. "Bodies piled, streets burning—makes us look like fucking clowns."
Irina stabbed Lev's photo. "Bratva's fracturing—Lev's losing control. Chechens hit hard, but someone's pulling bigger strings." She tapped Viktor's face. "This one's a shadow— sniffing around."
Markov leaned back, grim. "We need arrests—Lev, Nastya, anyone. If we don't cage this, we're done. City's screaming for blood." The board loomed, Moscow's chaos staring back, no answers, only graves