What we do is never justice. It cannot be justice, and it must never become justice.

Dawn had not yet arrived, but the night was already waning, leaving only a gloomy silhouette. The atmosphere of the battlefield drifted low, woven with the scent of burnt powder and metallic resonance, while shattered glass fragments scattered like the shards of a dead constellation, reflecting the faint afterglow. Intermittent artillery fire vibrated through the air, piercing the layers of distance, but those echoes no longer carried any narrative. Viktor Gromov tightened the fasteners of his body armor once more. The woven fibers let out a low snapping sound as they rubbed together, a minor noise that sounded excessively sharp in this place. The members of Karatel stood in a semi-circle. Their faces, visible beneath night-vision gear, were submerged in unidentifiable shadows, yet we knew exactly who each other was. Each breath condensed briefly into thin white mist in the cold before dissipating. Individuals had long since been erased; all that remained were bodies acting as functional units.

Viktor Gromov scanned the line sequentially. Unnecessary roll calls were omitted. Naming presupposes a relationship, but here, such things were superfluous. Relationships do not exceed tactical utility. "Infiltration time: 03:20. The operation proceeds exactly as briefed." His voice dropped like a dry regulation, devoid of any rise or fall in pitch. This was neither persuasion nor encouragement, but a mere declaration. The wind blew, swirling the ash.