Winter's cold crept through the windows of a secluded dacha outside Moscow, but inside, the air was thick with tension and cigar smoke. Around the heavy wooden table sat a group of Russia's most powerful generals men who had once marched in lockstep with Vladimir Putin's iron will but now whispered of rebellion.
Putin's military reforms had reshaped the command structure, installing loyalists in key positions and side lining old guards who questioned his vision. The generals around the table feared their days of influence were numbered.
"We are becoming obsolete," General Mikhailov growled, tapping ash into a crystal ashtray. "Putin trusts only those born from his circle. We, the old command, are shadows fading into the cold."
A younger general, Petrov, nodded sharply. "He's centralizing the nuclear forces. Our units will soon be nothing more than cannon fodder or glorified guards. We need leverage, or we'll be erased."
Leverage. The word hung in the air like a blade.
One of the men, Vasilyev, slid an encrypted data pad across the table. "There is a way."
The generals leaned in.
Through back channels, they had made contact with a shadowy arms dealer a ghost with no name, no face. Vekom.
His clones had already infiltrated Europe's black markets and old Soviet arsenals. He could supply what they needed weapons outside official inventories, untraceable and deadly.
But there was more. The generals needed nuclear cores stolen remnants from the Soviet stockpiles to ensure Putin would think twice before crushing them. Vekom could get those, too.
Silence fell.
"You're suggesting we buy nuclear warheads?" Mikhailov's voice was barely a whisper.
Petrov smirked. "Not just buy. Smuggle. And Vekom's forces are the best at that."
Over the next days, the deals poured in.
Encrypted messages zipped across satellite networks. Orders flooded Vekom's system: surface-to-air missiles, silenced rifles, explosives, and the most dangerous cargo fissile material cores for tactical nukes.
Vekom dispatched his clones with cold precision. One infiltrated a Siberian depot, rerouting crates. Another slipped into a European transport convoy, swapping manifests. No one noticed.
Meanwhile, Moscow's political winds shifted violently.
Explosions ripped through government communications hubs and supply depots. Carefully calibrated to avoid full-scale war, these strikes were unmistakable warnings the old guard still had teeth.
Putin's loyalists scrambled to uncover the source, but the underground network of generals was well-hidden, their new arsenals growing in secret.
Amid the chaos, Vekom watched and smiled.
His influence was no longer confined to distant conflicts or secret shipments. He was weaving himself into the heart of Russia's power struggle, dictating who lived and who fell.
The generals were pawns, yes but powerful ones.
And in the great game of shadows, Vekom was no longer just a dealer. He was a kingmaker.
Winter deepened outside, but inside the dacha, a new fire burned.
A fire that could consume a nation.