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CHAPTER IV. Always a Traitor
The aftermath of the battle hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight that pressed down on Elina as she stumbled towards the waiting helicopter. The adrenaline that had fueled her through the fight had long since drained away, leaving her limbs trembling and her mind a blur of exhaustion and confusion. Every step felt like a monumental effort, her muscles protesting against the demand to keep moving, to keep pushing forward even as her spirit faltered.
The other women were already there, their faces etched with the same mixture of defeat and disbelief. Zoya, Milla, and Rhaena—each of them bore the marks of their failed mission, their bodies bruised and battered, their expressions hard with the realization that they had lost. They were silent as they boarded the helicopter, a wordless understanding passing between them that this was a defeat unlike any they had known before. It wasn't just a failed mission—it was a personal failure, a wound that cut deeper than any physical injury.
Elina climbed in last, her movements slow and deliberate as she settled into her seat. The door closed with a heavy thud, sealing them off from the world outside, enclosing them in a cocoon of shared failure and bitter silence. The rotor blades whirred to life, the sound a dull roar in Elina's ears as the helicopter lifted off the ground, leaving behind the rooftop, the city, the fight—all of it shrinking away into the distance, swallowed by the fog of morning.
She leaned back against the cold, metal interior of the helicopter, closing her eyes as she let out a long, shaky breath. The vibration of the engine pulsed through her body, a dull, rhythmic thrum that matched the slow, uneven beat of her heart. She could feel the exhaustion in every inch of her being, a bone-deep weariness that threatened to pull her under, to drown her in the depths of her own failure.
As the helicopter soared higher, the world below becoming a blur of gray and white, Elina's thoughts drifted away from the present, away from the sting of defeat and the lingering ache of battle. She let her mind wander back, back to a time when things were different, when she and Natasha were not enemies on a battlefield, but sisters—partners in survival, in a world that had tried to break them both.
She could almost hear the echoes of their laughter, the sound of their voices mingling together as they whispered secrets in the darkened dormitories of the Red Room, their breath visible in the cold, sterile air. They had been inseparable then, two sides of the same coin, their bond forged in the fires of their shared pain, their shared training. Natasha had always been the stronger one, the one who could endure anything, who could take the harshest blows without flinching. But she had always been there for Elina, too—lifting her up when she stumbled, protecting her from the worst of their instructors' wrath.
Memories washed over her in waves, vivid and painful in their clarity. She remembered the nights they had spent huddled together under thin blankets, whispering about the world outside, about the dreams they dared not speak aloud in the light of day. Natasha had always talked about freedom, about escaping the chains that bound them, about finding a life beyond the Red Room. She had spun stories of cities far away, of places where they could be safe, where they could be more than weapons, more than tools in someone else's war.
