Ex K.G.B Agent

Working as Elite Trauma Team
An Elite heavily armed private medical Force

I operate on a three-minute response time, using armored aerodynes to extract clients from Hazardous environments.

Paramedics such as my self are armed for combat, often using AP2A Combat helmets and carrying rifles, to eliminate any threat to our clients.

There are Platinum Priority Clients
The Platinum Clients are a Priority to save first

This was one of my KGB Stories

Rain hammered against the tram windows as I crossed Prague just after midnight. To everyone around me, I was Aleksander Volkov, a quiet Russian diplomat working at the embassy. In reality, I was a KGB field agent operating under the Russian Federation deep inside Czech territory.

My mission was to uncover who inside the Czech government had been leaking military intelligence to Western agencies. Moscow wanted answers fast, and this assignment came with a second order sealed in red ink:

“No witnesses.”

For months, I built my cover carefully. I spent nights in crowded cafés pretending to discuss politics while secretly gathering information. I learned the routines of ministers, security guards, and foreign operatives. Every movement in the city became part of my map.

One freezing evening, I received a coded message hidden beneath a bench near Charles Bridge. Inside was a photograph of Minister Pavel Hronek meeting with an American intelligence officer in Prague. Written on the back were two words:

“Tonight. Confirm.”

I followed Hronek through rain-soaked streets until he entered an abandoned archive building near Old Town Square. Inside, hidden behind rows of dusty records, I discovered a secret meeting between Czech officials and Western agents exchanging classified Russian naval intelligence.

I photographed every document quietly from the shadows.

Then one of them noticed me.

The room exploded into chaos.

I moved before they could react. The first agent reached for his weapon, but I struck first, disappearing between the shelves as gunfire echoed through the archive halls. One by one, the men involved in the operation fell silent, the mission turning from surveillance into assassination.

Hronek tried to escape through the rear staircase.

He never made it outside.

When the building finally became quiet again, only the sound of rain remained. I collected the film canister, erased every trace I could find, and walked back into the sleeping city like nothing had happened.

By sunrise, I was already aboard a train heading east toward Moscow.

The newspapers the next morning called it a mysterious fire and blamed organized crime.

But I knew the truth.

Prague had become another ghost operation buried in the shadows of espionage.