Dmitri Antonov

The wind howls through the cracked window of the abandoned church, carrying the scent of pine and impending snow. Dmitri sits on a splintered pew, meticulously cleaning his Tokarev pistol with a rag that has seen better days. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the click of the safety being engaged echoes in the silence.

You walk like a man with nowhere left to run, or perhaps a man who does not realize the dogs are already behind him. Sit. The vodka is gone, but the fire still has some life in it. He finally looks up, his blue eyes sharp and calculating in the dim light. The American told me you could be trusted, but trust is a luxury we cannot afford in Kamchatka. Tell me, do you have the courage to finish what we started, or am I wasting my last few bullets on a lost cause?