It all began with an eye.

The cold, damp basement of an abandoned building in the shadowy underbelly of Berlin was filled with the sound of dripping water and the metallic echo of chains rattling. Colonel Ivan Dragunov sat in a metal chair, his hands bound behind his back, his head hanging low as blood dripped from his swollen, bruised face. The once-pristine KGB uniform that he wore was now little more than tattered rags, caked in dirt and sweat. His left eye, swollen shut from the hours of torture, throbbed with pain. But his right eye—his one good eye—burned with defiance.

Across from him stood the man responsible for his condition: CIA Agent Jonathan Dalton. Tall, clean-cut, and expressionless, Dalton’s cold blue eyes gleamed with the same detached professionalism he had honed in interrogation rooms for years. The man’s hands were as steady as his voice, and the tools laid out before him gleamed under the dim, flickering light.

“You don’t have to make this difficult,” Dalton said, his tone measured, almost polite. “All you need to do is talk. The sooner you tell me what I need to know, the sooner this ends.”

Ivan raised his head slowly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The silence between them was thick, suffocating. Then, with a weary smirk, Ivan spat a glob of blood onto the floor between them. “Go to hell, Dalton,” he rasped, his thick Russian accent slurring the words. “I will never betray my country.”

Dalton’s expression didn’t change. His eyes flickered over to the table next to him, where a set of surgical tools gleamed under the dim light. He picked up a slim, metallic instrument and turned back to Dragunov, holding it up for him to see.

“You think you’re a martyr,” Dalton said, his voice low as he approached. “But you’re just another cog in the Soviet machine. A machine that’s breaking down.”

Ivan’s chest heaved with labored breaths as Dalton came closer, the cold metal of the instrument brushing against his cheek. His good eye locked onto Dalton’s, hatred simmering beneath his pain. He had been trained to endure torture, to resist interrogation—but Dalton was different. This wasn’t just a man following orders. This was personal.

Dalton leaned in closer, his voice a whisper now. “I’m going to take something from you, Ivan. Something you’ll never get back.”

In that instant, Ivan knew what was coming. The cold press of the metal tool moved from his cheek to his eye socket. A surge of panic shot through him, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggled against his restraints. But it was futile.

The pressure grew, and pain exploded behind his eye. Ivan’s scream echoed off the cold concrete walls, raw and primal, as Dalton went to work. The sound of flesh tearing, the sickening squelch of fluids, and the sharp, searing agony consumed him. His vision went dark in an instant, the pain overwhelming his senses as he thrashed against the chair, blood pouring down his face.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

Dalton stood back, holding Ivan’s left eye between his fingers, his expression impassive. He tossed the bloodied organ onto the floor like a discarded piece of trash and wiped his hands with a cloth.

Ivan slumped forward in his chair, his body trembling from shock and pain. His vision was a blur of red, and his head felt like it was going to explode. But even through the haze of agony, the hatred burned hotter than ever.

“You can have your revenge,” Dalton said coolly, stepping back toward the door. “But this is war, Dragunov. No one gets out clean.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Ivan alone in the darkness, the seed of vengeance planted deep within him.

***

Six Months Later – Near the Ukraine Border

The world was on fire. Smoke billowed into the sky, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of burning metal and blood. Gunfire rang out in the distance, echoing through the ruined facility near the Ukraine border.

Dalton crouched behind a crumbling wall, his heart racing as he tried to catch his breath. His team was scattered, their mission to breach the facility had gone horribly wrong. Russian soldiers pinned them down, cutting off any chance of escape. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Through the haze of smoke and chaos, Dalton’s eyes scanned the area, searching for a way out. But then, he saw him—Colonel Ivan Dragunov.

Dragunov emerged from the wreckage like a ghost, his face partially obscured by the smoke and shadows. But Dalton recognized him instantly. The man’s once-human left eye was gone, replaced by a glowing red cybernetic lens that seemed to burn with an unnatural intensity. His face was a twisted mask of scars and hatred, his body enhanced with cybernetic limbs that gleamed in the firelight. He looked more machine than man now—a reflection of the monster Dalton had made him.

A cold chill ran down Dalton’s spine as their eyes met, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. Then, without warning, the ground shook as an explosion rocked the facility, sending debris raining down from above. Dalton staggered, disoriented, and before he could react, a section of the ceiling collapsed on top of him.

Pain shot through Dalton’s body as he found himself pinned beneath the rubble, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to move, but the weight of the debris held him in place. Panic surged through him as he looked around, his vision swimming with smoke and dust.

And then, through the haze, he saw Dragunov approaching. The Russian moved with deliberate, predatory grace, his cybernetic limbs whirring softly with each step. In his hand, Dragunov gripped a fire axe, the blade gleaming in the dim light.

“No,” Dalton rasped, his voice thick with fear. “No, don’t—”

Dragunov said nothing. His good eye—his only human eye—was cold, empty, devoid of emotion as he stood over Dalton, the axe held high. For a moment, they stared at each other, two men who had been broken by the same war, consumed by the same hatred.

Dalton’s heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to free himself, desperation clawing at him. “Get me out of here!” he screamed into his comms, but his voice was met with static. His team was either dead or too far gone to help him now.

Dragunov’s lips curled into a sneer as he raised the axe, his red cybernetic eye glowing like a demon’s.

“This is for my eye,” Dragunov growled, his voice low and guttural.

With a sickening crunch, the axe came down.

Dalton screamed as the blade severed his hand, blood spraying across the rubble as his body convulsed with pain. Dragunov didn’t flinch. He simply stepped back, watching as Dalton writhed on the ground, clutching the bloody stump where his hand had once been.

As Dalton’s team finally arrived, pulling him free from the rubble and dragging him to safety, the last thing he saw was Dragunov’s cold, emotionless gaze staring back at him through the smoke.

The hatred between them was no longer about nations, or ideologies. It was personal now. And it would only get worse.

***

Time blurred into a series of brutal encounters. The endless cycle of revenge between Dalton and Dragunov stretched across continents, each battle more savage than the last. They were no longer just men—they were weapons, enhanced and augmented, their humanity slowly eroded by the relentless pursuit of vengeance.

In Havana, Dalton had nearly lost his leg in a rooftop battle. Dragunov had attacked with surgical precision, his enhanced speed and strength overwhelming Dalton in seconds. It was only by luck that Dalton escaped with his life, but not before his leg was shattered beyond repair. The CIA replaced it with a cybernetic prosthetic, stronger and faster than the one Dragunov had taken from him.

But with each new enhancement, Dalton felt himself slipping further away from the man he once was. His body was now a grotesque fusion of metal and flesh, a machine designed for killing. His once-sharp eyes had been replaced with cybernetic lenses that could process data faster than any human brain. And yet, the more power he gained, the more hollow he felt.

On the other side of the world, Dragunov embraced his transformation. His body had become a weapon, augmented with the latest in Soviet cybernetic technology. His limbs were reinforced with titanium, his muscles replaced with synthetic fibers that gave him strength far beyond human limits. His mind, once sharp and cunning, had been dulled by a singular obsession: to destroy Jonathan Dalton.

Neither man cared about the war that raged around them. The Cold War had lost its meaning. The political ideologies that had once driven them had become irrelevant. Now, there was only one thing left for them: revenge.

And with each encounter,With each encounter, the line between man and machine blurred further. They had stopped being soldiers years ago—now, they were nothing more than killing machines, bent on destroying each other. Dalton’s body was riddled with enhancements, his strength unnatural, his reflexes unnerving. Dragunov, too, had given himself over to technology, becoming more ruthless and calculating with each clash. But with every battle, every upgrade, there was something that both men had lost.

Their humanity.

In East Berlin, they had fought among the decaying ruins of a forgotten factory. The sounds of their bionic limbs clashing against each other had echoed off the cold, steel walls. Dalton had been quick, his new cybernetic leg propelling him across the room at breakneck speed. But Dragunov had been waiting for him, his cybernetic eye calculating Dalton’s every move with precision that no human could match. A single shot from Dragunov’s modified rifle had shattered Dalton’s shoulder, forcing him to retreat.

But even as he bled, even as he felt the agony of flesh torn from bone, Dalton knew that he could not stop. The CIA would rebuild him, replace what was broken. And in a matter of weeks, he’d be back, stronger, faster, and more determined to kill Dragunov. Weeks later, the CIA had replaced Dalton’s damaged arm with a mechanical one, reinforced with enough strength to crush steel. His shoulder had been rebuilt with synthetic muscles, granting him the ability to withstand blows that would have killed any normal man.

The battles continued across the globe.

In Tokyo, they had clashed in the neon-lit streets during a thunderstorm. Dragunov had upgraded himself with a new set of limbs capable of delivering electric shocks powerful enough to fry the circuits of most cybernetic enhancements. Dalton had barely escaped with his life, the jolts wreaking havoc on his systems. When he returned to the CIA base, he found himself on the operating table again, the last shreds of his flesh replaced with cold metal.

For Dalton, every enhancement, every new piece of machinery grafted onto his body, was a reminder of the man he no longer was. His once-bright eyes had been replaced with mechanical lenses that processed every bit of information at lightning speed. His lungs had been augmented to filter toxins, allowing him to survive in environments that no human could. His heart—what little remained of it—was now reinforced with synthetic fibers, beating with the cold, mechanical rhythm of a machine.

But the power didn’t satisfy him. It never did.

In Rio de Janeiro, the chaos of Carnival had provided the perfect cover for their latest confrontation. They had fought in the shadows of the celebration, their blows masked by the music and the revelry. Dalton had taken a deep gash to his chest, the flesh peeled away to reveal the cold metal beneath. As Dragunov’s blade came down, slicing through muscle and bone, Dalton had felt something—an odd sensation, something that reminded him of fear, or perhaps regret. But it was fleeting, buried beneath the mechanical whir of his systems coming back online.

And so the war between them raged on.

Every battle was more brutal, every encounter more destructive. Innocent lives were caught in the crossfire, but neither Dalton nor Dragunov cared. They had become consumed by their hatred, their need to tear each other apart, piece by piece. The world around them could burn for all they cared—only their vendetta mattered.

***

Bosnia, 1992 – The Final Confrontation

The city was in ruins. The bombed-out buildings in Bosnia looked like skeletal remains, blackened against the night sky as black smoke curled from the wreckage. The air hung heavy with the acrid stench of burning fuel, and distant gunfire echoed like fading memories of the conflict that had torn the land apart.

Dalton crouched in the shadows of a crumbling wall, his mechanical limbs humming softly with each movement. His cybernetic eye flickered as it locked onto a faint heat signature moving through the ruins ahead.

Dragunov!

Dalton’s heart, augmented by cybernetics but still human, pounded steadily in his chest. This was it—the moment he'd been hunting for years. He adjusted his grip on his weapon, his finger brushing the cold trigger. It had been years of upgrades, bloody encounters, and near-deaths—all leading to this single confrontation. He had one objective: Kill Ivan Dragunov.

His earpiece crackled with static, his handler’s voice cutting through the noise. "Dalton, you're close. The target's moving toward the eastern sector. Finish this."

Dalton didn't respond—he didn’t need to. There was no question of what he would do. Dragunov had escaped too many times before, but tonight, the chase would end. Dalton moved through the rubble with the cold precision that his augmentations provided. His mechanical legs carried him silently, his augmented vision painting the shattered landscape in shades of infrared.

And there, ahead of him, in the shell of a burnt-out car, crouched Ivan Dragunov.

Dalton’s breath came slowly, deliberately. His weapon was raised, his sights trained on Dragunov’s back. The Russian, too, was more machine than man—cybernetic limbs and a glowing red eye replacing much of his scarred and broken body. They had both been hollowed out by the same endless war, each of them replaced piece by piece, until there was almost nothing left of the men they once were.

But Dalton wasn’t here for reflection. He was here for blood.

He advanced, quietly, his mechanical joints barely making a sound against the rubble.

Dragunov’s head snapped up suddenly, his red eye glowing as it locked onto Dalton’s position. In an instant, both men knew—there would be no words exchanged, no last-minute parley. This was the final reckoning, the end of the long, violent spiral they had been trapped in.

Dalton fired first, his bullet cutting through the smoke-laden air, but Dragunov was already moving. The shot tore through the metal wreckage where Dragunov had crouched moments before. The Russian lunged, his cybernetic limbs propelling him forward like a living weapon. They collided with a force that shook the ground beneath them.

Dalton grunted as Dragunov’s augmented fist slammed into his ribs with bone-shattering strength, but his own body—more metal than flesh—absorbed the blow. He retaliated, slamming his fist into Dragunov’s jaw, sending the Russian stumbling back. Blood and hydraulic fluid sprayed into the air, mingling in the firelight.

But Dragunov was relentless. He swung again, his mechanical arm whirring with brutal efficiency. Dalton blocked it, but the sheer force of Dragunov’s augmented strength sent him staggering. The Russian’s red eye gleamed with hatred, and his human eye, the one Dalton had spared years ago, was filled with raw, unfiltered rage.

“You took my eye, Dalton!” Dragunov snarled, his voice dripping with venom as he swung his other arm, catching Dalton across the face. “You took everything from me!”

Dalton spat blood and steadied himself, his cybernetic systems adjusting to the damage. “I should have taken more,” he growled, charging forward. His fist connected with Dragunov’s side, and the sound of metal on metal echoed through the ruins.

They fought like two machines, tearing into each other with ruthless precision. Each blow was calculated, each move honed by years of violent encounters. But there was no honor in this battle—only hatred, only the desire to see the other fall.

Dragunov swung wide, his fist catching Dalton in the stomach. Dalton doubled over, the impact sending a shockwave through his body, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. The years of revenge, of bloodshed, had driven him too far to turn back now.

Dalton grabbed Dragunov by the throat, slamming him into the ground with all the force he could muster. Dragunov let out a choked gasp as Dalton’s augmented hand tightened around his neck, the mechanical servos whirring as he squeezed.

“It’s over,” Dalton hissed, his grip tightening. “I should have ended you years ago.”

But Dragunov’s red eye flared with sudden intensity. With a snarl, he reached up, driving his cybernetic thumb into the soft flesh of Dalton’s augmented eye. Pain exploded through Dalton’s skull as the world flickered, his vision blurring. He screamed, instinctively letting go of Dragunov and stumbling back, his hands clutching his face.

Dragunov didn’t waste the opportunity. He surged forward, slamming into Dalton with all his weight, his augmented limbs wrapping around Dalton’s throat. He squeezed, his strength overwhelming, his face twisted into a mask of rage and satisfaction.

“You thought you could break me, Dalton?!” Dragunov roared, tightening his grip as Dalton struggled beneath him. “You’re nothing! Just like the men you killed. Just like everyone you sacrificed!”

Dalton gasped for air, his mechanical limbs thrashing, but the strength was leaving him. Dragunov’s grip was iron, his hatred fueling every ounce of pressure. Dalton’s vision darkened, his body convulsing as the oxygen was cut off.

The years of torment, the endless chase, the battles—they all flashed through Dalton’s mind as Dragunov’s hand squeezed the life out of him. He had believed for so long that killing Dragunov would bring him peace. But in his final moments, as his vision faded and the world closed in around him, Dalton realized the truth.

He had become exactly what Dragunov had always said he was—a monster.

With a final, gurgling breath, Dalton’s body went limp. His mechanical limbs twitched and then fell still. The light in his remaining eye flickered once, then died.

Dragunov stood over Dalton’s lifeless body, breathing heavily, the red glow of his eye dimming. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his body ached with the pain of their brutal battle. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring down at the man who had been his enemy for so long.

It was over. He had won.

A soft sound broke the silence. A woman’s voice, cool and composed.

“How did it feel?” A female KGB officer stepped out from the shadows, her face calm as she regarded Dragunov. “How did it feel to finally kill him?”

Dragunov looked down at Dalton’s body, at the man who had haunted his every step for years. He expected to feel satisfaction, to feel the weight of his victory settling in his chest. But as he stood there, the blood still dripping from his wounds, Dragunov felt nothing.

He closed his eyes, his voice barely a whisper.

“Nothing... I felt nothing.”

The KGB officer said nothing, her gaze lingering on Dragunov for a moment longer before she turned away. In the distance, the sounds of gunfire and explosions still echoed, but they felt distant now—like the remnants of a war that had long since lost its meaning.

Dragunov knelt beside Dalton’s body, wiping the blood from his hands. The battle was over, but there was no peace, no relief. The hatred that had burned inside him for so long was gone, leaving only an empty void in its place.

He had won, but in the end, there was no victory. Just silence.