"A Love That Lasts"

Moscow – 8:12 AM, Monday

Bravta Arms Headquarters

The cold this morning was sharper than the day before, biting through the weave of Zayra's wool coat as she stood outside the glass-paneled tower of Bravta Arms. Frost curled at the edges of the sidewalk, and the sky stretched wide and pale above, the kind of color that felt almost too clean, too still—like a warning.

The building before her shimmered with mirrored glass, sleek steel, and the quiet menace of power. It didn't look like a hospital. It didn't even look like a company. It looked like a fortress.

Her breath fogged in the air as she stepped forward.

Security was no small affair. Cameras tracked her from above, biometric scanners blinked under soft blue lights, and guards in tailored black uniforms stood at attention, their movements exact.

She handed over her new ID badge, the plastic smooth and cold in her hand. The guard scanned it, gave a single nod, and stepped aside.

And just like that—she was in.

This is real now, she thought.

The first thing she saw on the other side of the security gate wasn't a nurse or a hospital administrator. It was Alaric.

He stood like a shadow pulled from the building itself—black suit tailored to precision, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"You're early," he said as she approached, voice calm and clipped. "That's good."

Zayra offered a small smile. "Nervous energy."

Alaric gave a short nod. "Let's walk."

They moved through the heart of the facility; down corridors made of frosted glass and matte steel. The air inside smelled faintly of ozone and antiseptic. Every person they passed moved with purpose—security agents with earpieces, med-techs in crisp white coats, analysts in charcoal-gray suits. No small talk. No wasted motion.

Zayra kept pace beside him, absorbing everything in silence.

Eventually, they arrived at a quieter wing—the Medical Division. The temperature dropped slightly, lights overhead humming in a cool white. The equipment here was top-grade, sterile, expensive. Monitors blinked softly, and voices echoed quietly in the distance, clipped and efficient.

Alaric gestured down the corridor. "This floor is your domain. You'll be overseeing all medical assessments, trauma response, field clearances, and post-op debriefs. The team reports to you on rotation."

He stopped in front of a glass office door.

Zayra's breath caught.

Etched on the surface, in clean serif letters, was her name:

Z. N. Mendoza-Villamor, RN, NP

She stepped forward as though approaching something sacred. Inside, the space was sleek and minimal—her own desk, dual monitors, cabinets, a clean line of surgical lighting. A wide window looked out over the facility's grounds, where frost clung to the grass in patches of silver.

She entered slowly, brushing her fingers across the polished desk.

"I never imagined…" she whispered.

Alaric stood just behind her, his voice softer this time. "You earned it."

Before she could answer, a knock came from the open doorway.

A young nurse in Bravta's clinical uniform stepped in. "Ms. Villamor, we have three new personnel due for medical clearance by noon."

Zayra straightened. The awe faded. Focus returned.

"I'll get started," she said with crisp professionalism.

Alaric gave one nod and turned toward the hallway. "If you need anything," he said, pausing, "I'm on the executive floor. Don't hesitate."

And then he was gone.

Her day began with blood draws and biometric scans, moved swiftly into trauma assessments, and ended with psychological evaluations. These weren't patients. They were operatives—some fresh from overseas missions, others long embedded in places they couldn't even name.

One bore a stitched burn across his abdomen. Another had shrapnel scars running down the length of his arm. Some were quiet and cooperative. Others watched her too closely, testing her with every word.

Zayra handled them all with calm, clinical precision.

At one point, while cleaning and stitching a deep shoulder wound, she overheard two junior medics whispering in Russian just outside the trauma bay.

"She's new. Dr. Cecilia's choice. Probably soft."

She didn't flinch.

She tied off the final stitch with a neat tug, cut the thread, and applied the bandage with silent efficiency.

Let them talk, she thought. My work will speak louder.

Afternoon….

The light in her office had softened when a figure appeared at her door.

Dr. Cecilia stepped in, elegant as always, holding two thermoses.

"You survived the morning," she said with a knowing smile. "Tea?"

Zayra leaned back, eyes tired but bright with purpose. "I could marry whoever made that."

Dr. Cecilia laughed gently and placed one of the thermoses on her desk. "This is the easy part. The chaos comes when they start bringing in covert injuries. The kind they don't log in the system."

Zayra arched a brow. "Black ops?"

"Among other things," Dr. Cecilia replied. "Keep your eyes open. Trust your instincts."

Zayra took a sip of the tea. It was strong and fragrant—jasmine and mint, with a note of citrus. The warmth bloomed through her, untangling knots of fatigue she hadn't noticed until now.

She looked out the window.

"This isn't just medicine anymore," she said quietly.

Dr. Cecilia's gaze was steady. "It never was."

That Night….

The lights of Moscow glowed like distant stars beneath her window. Zayra stood in the quiet of her apartment, still in her uniform, the day's weight pressed into her shoulders. In the glass reflection, she saw herself—no longer a girl who doubted her place in the world, but a woman holding her ground in one of the most dangerous places on earth.

She pulled out her phone, opened her Notes app, and began to type.

Day 1

Bravta is a world I've never seen before—cold, brilliant, brutal.

They don't treat you like a nurse here.

They treat you like a weapon.

I think… I can be both.