January 9, 2030
Moscow, Kremlin Media Annex
The ornate chandelier above the press chamber glimmered like icicles captured mid-fall, each crystal shard refracting the brightness of a hundred camera lenses trained on the velvet-draped stage. Rows of international journalists sat shoulder-to-shoulder, murmuring in hushed speculation. Screens behind them—massive, curved, and synchronized—glowed with the Kremlin insignia. Every angle was calculated. Every detail, choreographed.
President Viktor Malenkov entered the chamber like a man immune to pressure. Clad in a charcoal suit stitched in precision, the Russian leader's face bore no visible trace of the chaos that had transpired two nights prior. The Blackridge Incident, as it was already being labeled in closed circles, remained a state secret. To the public, nothing had happened. Not yet.
President Malenkov stepped to the podium.
"People of the Russian Federation," he began, voice amplified and weighted with solemnity, "and citizens of the world watching abroad."
The cameras zoomed in. Microphones leaned forward like vultures on stilts.
"In recent days, the Ministry of Defense has successfully thwarted a foreign act of cyber-terrorism aimed at destabilizing our internal intelligence networks. What occurred was a highly coordinated counterintelligence operation conducted in secret to neutralize the threat."
He paused. A whisper of movement in the crowd as reporters exchanged glances.
"These operatives were not Russian. They were part of a foreign effort to infiltrate sovereign security structures. Their goal: destabilization through espionage and psychological warfare."
Lies spun like silk. His eyes scanned the room with the calm of a man who'd long learned to believe his own fiction.
But then—
Every screen in the conference hall flickered. Once. Twice.
Then it went black.
The room held its breath.
And then, from the darkness, came the image.
A woman's face—a blank porcelain mask with a single painted teardrop under the right eye—filled every screen. Her voice echoed into the chamber, not synthesized but sharp, deliberate, and undeniably human.
"You're watching this because you've been lied to."
Malenkov froze at the podium. Security stirred, eyes darting, comms hissing. But they did not move. The eyes of the world were still on them.
The masked figure continued.
"We apologize for the interruption, but we do not apologize for what you are about to witness."
Behind her, surveillance footage played. Unfiltered, high-definition images taken from inside Blackridge Containment Facility. The images were damning: scorched hallways, empty cells, autopsy tables drenched in dried blood. Files opened. Chemicals stacked in crates labeled 'HelixCross Logistics.'
"This is Blackridge," she said. "An off-the-record Russian prison beneath the Arctic Circle. It houses political enemies, civilians, whistleblowers. People who asked the wrong questions. People who said no."
Gasps. A few reporters reached instinctively for their phones—only to find them jammed.
"This is where your President sends ghosts to die. This is where the Black List operates—state-sanctioned secret death squad under General Stroganov's command."
The image shifted. Quick cuts. Faces. Documents. Declassified clips of known assassinations previously deemed 'accidents'—all linked to the same operatives. One file showed Anne Ryker's capture. Another showed HelixCross order records.
"Anne Ryker discovered the truth: the illegal procurement of chemical agents disguised as medical shipments. She was taken. Interrogated. Nearly killed."
The masked woman's head tilted slightly.
"But she survived. And now, so will the truth."
The feed cut again. Another flicker. This time the screen returned with a live feed.
General Mikhail Stroganov.
Tied to a chair in what looked like an underground tunnel. Blood trailed from his mouth, knife buried in his chest. His uniform was torn. Lifeless eyes stared into the camera.
Behind him, spray-painted on the wall in blood-red lettering:
"January."
Screams broke out. The cameras whipped toward the stage. President Malenkov did not flinch.
But his jaw tightened.
The screens all shut off simultaneously.
Darkness.
Then emergency lights bathed the chamber in a pale amber glow.
Security rushed the stage. Journalists shouted, dozens talking at once. Questions collided like shrapnel:
"Is this real?"
"What is the meaning of January?"
"What happened to Stroganov?!"
"President Malenkov, will you respond?!"
The hall erupted. Reporters shouted. Guards moved in.
But President Malenkov didn't wait.
Two of his elite guards stepped forward and flanked him. A third spoke rapidly into his collar mic. With silent coordination, they guided Malenkov off the stage and out of view. Within seconds, he had vanished from the hall.
The screens blinked off.
Outside, the press wire had already exploded. Within seconds, feeds were mirrored worldwide. Screens in Berlin, Tokyo, London, and New York now showed Blackridge. Anne Ryker. The body of Mikhail Stroganov.