2052. The Bunker. The last thing I should be doing is thinking about him. I need to leave this rotten city. If they find me, I’m dead. I should get out of this disgusting mattress this very instant and do something useful. Why the hell do I keep thinking about him instead? The man who ruined me. The man who made me his slave. Viktor Volkov. I stand up in a rush and ensure the bunker doors are sealed. The image of his pier...