Snow had begun to fall again by evening.
The academy corridors were quiet now, the loud chaos of the training ground replaced with distant footsteps and the low hum of heaters fighting the Russian winter.
Artyom walked alone.
The fight earlier had turned him into a topic of discussion across the academy. Everywhere he passed, whispers followed.
But he ignored them.
His thoughts were somewhere else.
Morozov.
The name Roman had looked at him with earlier had not been the gaze of a normal instructor.
It had been recognition.
And that was dangerous.
Artyom pushed open the door leading to the academy courtyard. Cold wind immediately brushed against his face.
White snow covered everything.
The courtyard lights glowed softly in the dark evening.
Artyom stepped forward.
Then he stopped.
Someone else was already there.
A tall figure leaned casually against the stone railing near the fountain.
Black coat.
Dark hair.
Cold, calculating eyes.
Artyom's chest tightened slightly.
Adrian Volkov.
The man from that night.
The stranger he had sworn he would never see again.
Adrian straightened slowly when he noticed Artyom.
Their eyes met.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
The cold air between them felt heavier than before.
Finally, Adrian spoke.
"You fight well."
His voice was calm, deep, controlled.
Artyom frowned slightly.
"You've been watching."
It wasn't a question.
Adrian stepped forward, snow crunching under his boots.
"I watch many things."
Artyom didn't like the way he said that.
The distance between them slowly disappeared.
Now they stood only a few steps apart.
Adrian studied Artyom's face carefully.
The same face he had woken up beside months ago.
But this time the situation was different.
Very different.
"You didn't tell me your name that night," Adrian said quietly.
Artyom crossed his arms slightly.
"And you didn't ask."
A faint smirk appeared on Adrian's lips.
Fair enough.
But then Adrian said something that made Artyom freeze.
"Morozov."
The word fell into the air like a bullet.
Artyom's eyes sharpened.
"Who told you that?"
Adrian didn't answer immediately.
Instead he looked up at the falling snow.
"My father," he said finally.
That made Artyom's stomach twist.
If Viktor Volkov knew the name…
Then things were already far bigger than Artyom expected.
Adrian looked back at him.
"There hasn't been a Morozov in Russia for years."
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Then Adrian stepped even closer.
Now they were almost touching.
"But suddenly one appears in my academy," Adrian continued softly.
"And he fights like someone I've heard about only in stories."
Artyom's heart was beating faster now.
But his face stayed calm.
"Stories are often exaggerated."
Adrian studied him carefully.
Then he leaned closer to Artyom's ear and whispered something that made Artyom's blood run cold.
"If you are who I think you are…"
Adrian stepped back slightly.
"…then you're standing in the middle of a war you don't even know about yet."
At that moment—
A phone vibrated in Artyom's pocket.
He checked it.
One message.
From an unknown number.
Unknown:
"Your stepmother has started moving. Be careful."
Artyom's expression darkened instantly.
The war Adrian mentioned…
Had already begun.