Ivan, the largest of the group, let out a low, guttural laugh. "The State is about to find out that when you give a starving dog a bone made of fire, he doesn't just eat—he burns the whole house down."

Sergei wiped the grime from his knuckles, looking at the glowing green syringe. He wasn’t a hero, and he certainly wasn't a saint. He was a cage fighter whose only loyalty was to the next fix and the three comrades currently bleeding out in the cell beside him. The wasn't just a name whispered in the back alleys of Moscow—it was the ultimate payload, a pure, uncut strain of the drug that turned men into monsters and monsters into gods.

"They think they can lock us up and use us as lab rats," Sergei spat, the withdrawal tremors racking his frame. "They think the Nekro belongs to the State."

The air in the dingy Soviet underground didn't just smell like revolution; it smelled like .

They didn't wait for the guards to open the door. Sergei slammed the syringe into his neck, his vision exploding into a kaleidoscope of neon violence. The world slowed down. He could hear the individual heartbeats of the armored Spetsnaz soldiers rushing down the hall.

With a roar that tore his throat raw, Sergei kicked the iron bars off their hinges. This wasn't a rescue mission, and it wasn't a heist. It was a of pure carnage—an unlocked, unrestrained descent into the heart of a corrupt empire. By the time the sun rose over the Kremlin, the streets wouldn't be red because of the flag; they’d be red because Sergei and his crew had finally stopped taking orders and started taking lives.

The dealer was dead. The fix was free. And Russia was finally going to bleed.