And then the flag — black, white, and red — snapped into shape above the bridge, catching the morning light with obscene clarity: the Reichskriegsflagge, its iron cross spanning the field, a black swastika coiled at the center like a curse.
Her fingers danced across the keys – graceful, unfaltering. The screen split: encrypted Kremlin logs, shell corporations, then – A Swiss account. Internal label: з0лOTO. (Zoloto)
“Wolves,” Chloe said. “Not just wolves. Dire wolves.” They were bigger than I expected. Much bigger. One stepped into the open, thick-furred and hulking, its shoulders level with my ribs.
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