The snow hadn't stopped for three days.
The Sokolov estate felt colder than winter itself.
Artyom stood in his room, staring at the envelope placed on his desk.
No sender.
No seal.
Inside — a single photograph.
A man standing in the shadows of a city skyline.
Silver hair. Pale eyes. Long black coat.
On the back:
"You were never abandoned."
His hands trembled.
A knock came at the door.
"Father wants you downstairs," Pavel said flatly.
Artyom slid the photo into his drawer.
Downstairs, the air was tense.
Sergei stood near the fireplace. Leonid beside him.
"There was an attack on our northern routes," Sergei said.
"Volkov?" Pavel asked.
"No."
That single word shifted everything.
Sergei's eyes flicked toward Artyom for a fraction too long.
Artyom noticed.
Later that night —
Across the city, in an underground control room lined with monitors, the silver-haired man watched the Sokolov estate feed.
Andrei Morozov.
Alive.
Powerful.
Untouchable.
He touched the screen where Artyom's image was frozen.
"They're starting to move," one of his men said.
Andrei's voice was calm.
"Let them."
"And the boy?"
A long pause.
"He's not a boy anymore."
Back at the Volkov headquarters —
Viktor stood before his father.
"The northern route attack wasn't ours," Viktor said.
Roman nodded.
"I know."
"Then who is provoking war?"
Roman poured a drink slowly.
"There's a third force rising."
"Name."
Roman's eyes hardened.
"Morozov."
The room went silent.
Viktor frowned.
"I thought he disappeared years ago."
Roman's voice lowered.
"He didn't disappear."
"He evolved."
And for the first time in years —
Viktor felt something unfamiliar.
Excitement.