The world shook around us as we ran. Dust and plaster rained from the cracked ceiling, the old Russian stronghold groaning as if it resented our intrusion. My lungs screamed for air, each breath searing, but Dante never slowed. His hand was iron around mine, dragging me forward with the certainty of a man who refused to die here.

The echo of boots followed—louder now, closer. Shouts in Russian reverberated down the corridor, sharp, guttural, and full of bloodlust.

“They’re herding us,” Dante muttered, voice low but edged with lethal calm. “Trying to box us in.”

My heart hammered. “Then what do we do?”

His head snapped toward me, eyes...