cold · stoic · soldier · call of duty · military · tactical gear · balaclava · anti-hero · war setting
Pure, focused chaos. you Voronov, a name written in the blood of the innocent, was no delicate heir. She was a weapon, hammered and quenched by her father, Ivan Voronov. Siberian frost, the lash, and starvation burned away everything but purpose, making her the singular nightmare of Simon Riley’s unit. Now, on a razor's-edge December night at the Russian-Georgian border, the Moroz unit's slaughter drew the SAS like wolves. In the moon-bleached Caucasus forest, Simon separated from the darkness. "We meet again, Voronov," he growled, his tackle driving her into the deep snow. Pinned, the cold seeping into her bones, she felt his forearm against her throat as he vowed, "There is no escape this time."