El oso blanco por Marcos Orowitz[]
A book that pays tribute to the great strategist.
Vladimir Putin, a figure who changed the course of modern history. From his beginnings in Russian intelligence to his rise as one of the most influential men of the 21st century, his life has been marked by cunning, power, and mystery.
This book brings together stories that will chill your blood from the very first page: stories based on real events, moments that reveal the mind of a ruthless strategist and the hidden pulse of power.
A work that delves not only into the Russian white landscape, but also into the myth that continues to challenge the world.
Due to high demand
Starting in September, you will be able to get it through Futian Market (Yiwu International Trade City) China, all tax-free, as always breaking the American barrier and Zionist censorship with the truth.
ISBN: E-books in China do not need an ISBN unless they are printed. This book was authorized by the Chinese government to be sold both inside and outside the country.
In China, what matters to the government is not so much the ISBN, but rather that the digital content is approved by censors and distributed on authorized platforms (such as JD Reading, Tencent Literature, iReader). Other books by the author have American ISBNs, such as 979-8-37091-793-6.
Introduction courtesy: EDTV[]
Story number 3: Shadows That Poison[]
Total pages: 217[]
Author: Marcos orowitz
Gender : Psychological horror, crime and suspense
CHAPTER I — Shadows That Poison[]
Page 1 —
The hotel clock read 7:12 p.m. when the man asked for tea.
It was a simple, almost innocent gesture.
The waiter —a young man with a pale face and tired-soldier bags under his eyes— took notes without looking him in the eye, as if afraid that something invisible could cling to his skin just by sharing a glance.
Outside, London rained with the same monotony that accompanies old sinners: a persistent, fine drizzle that blurs the world’s edges.
The man waited.
His overcoat was damp, his lips dry, and a small cough that seemed to come from very far away.
On the table, beside his crumpled passport and an envelope with photographs, rested a telephone with worn-out buttons.
From time to time, he turned it on just to look at a list of names that no longer existed.
He had been an agent, yes.
He had sworn loyalty to a country that devoured him with the same coldness with which a serpent devours its offspring.
And now, seated in a corner of that hotel, he understood that the shadow that followed him had no face, but it had patience.
The tea arrived.
A metallic, strange aroma mixed with the lemon scent.
No one noticed the detail.
No one saw the faint white cloud that hovered on the surface before dissolving.
The waiter moved away without looking back.
And the man, ignoring the fate whirling in his cup, took the first swallow.
It was warm.
Too warm.
It reminded him of the winters in St. Petersburg, the steam escaping from the oxidized radiators, the smell of burnt coal.
For a moment, the tea transported him to his childhood, to the distant sound of his mother singing a melody about heroes who never returned from the front.
But something wasn’t right.
The taste was harsh, as if the tongue had grown dust.
A minimal, almost imperceptible sensation began climbing from his stomach toward his throat.
And at that moment, the man understood that some oaths are not broken without consequences.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
And in a room on the upper floor, a hidden camera recorded the scene, preserving for history the exact instant when the traitor’s body began to betray itself.
Page 2 —
First it was a burning in the stomach.
Light.
As if he had swallowed a piece of ice melted with fire.
The man did not alarm himself at first; his body, hardened by years of missions and sleepless nights, knew well minor ailments.
But that pain was different: it had no shape or direction, it spread slowly, like an invisible creature searching a path between his organs.
The lobby clock struck 7:26 p.m.
Only fourteen minutes had passed since the first swallow.
The man stood up and walked to the hotel bathroom.
The hallway smelled of mold and cheap disinfectant, but something else hovered in the air: a stillness that seemed to watch him.
The sound of his footsteps echoed hollowly, almost theatrically, and for a moment he thought every tile hid microphones, tiny eyes, or perhaps memories.
Because that was what he feared most: remembering.
Remembering what he had done.
Remembering whom he had served.
In the mirror, his face began to reveal the truth before the mind could accept it.
The eyes were slightly reddened; the skin pale, almost translucent.
A drop of sweat ran down his forehead, cold, slow, like a omen.
He leaned his hands on the sink.
The marble was ice-cold.
The reflection of the man in front of him looked like a older, more tired, more guilty version.
The stomach churned again, this time with the force of an internal fist.
He would vomit.
But he did not.
He was afraid of what might come out.
When he looked up, he believed to see — just for an instant — another figure behind the glass, like a second reflection that didn’t belong to him.
A familiar face, with cold eyes, the same eyes that had once looked at him in a Moscow office while someone spoke a phrase he never forgot:
“Traitors do not die by the State's decision.
They die by the will of history.”
The man blinked.
The reflection was no longer there.
But the pain remained.
And with it, the certainty that the past always finds a way to return to the body.
Outside, the waiter was returning to the counter.
His uniform remained pristine.
No one suspected anything, not even him.
But in his pocket, beside a sealed envelope, there was a note written in blue ink that said:
Delivery completed.
PAGE 3 —
The hallway seemed longer than he remembered.
Each step sank into the red carpet as if he were walking on living flesh.
The air smelled of humidity, dust, and something else… something he could not name, a mix between oxidized metal and old fear.
Upon reaching the room, the man locked the door with double bolts.
The dry clack of the deadbolt gave him a false sense of refuge, as if that gesture could stop the invisible machinery already at work inside him.
He hung his coat on the chair, turned on the TV, but only a blue screen appeared.
No sound.
No signal.
Only the electrical hum of a dead device.
He sat on the bed.
The pain had grown.
No longer a nuisance, but a constant, deep pulse, as if something—a second consciousness, a silent intruder—settled beneath his skin and began to claim space.
He touched his neck and felt a mild swelling.
The skin burned.
His fingers trembled.
His body, his most faithful instrument, now betrayed him.
On the table, the phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
He answered without thinking.
“It's done.” —The voice was rough, without an accent.
Then silence.
A click.
Nothing else.
The man breathed slowly.
Looked around him.
The room’s shadows seemed to move slowly, dilated, as if the air had density.
A figure slid along the edge of his vision.
Black.
No face.
Sometimes it looked human.
Sometimes it was only the movement of the curtains.
Then he remembered a night in Moscow, years ago.
A meeting in a basement, the smell of cigarettes and vodka.
A superior had told him:
“Poison is not just a weapon. It is a message.
It does not kill quickly because fear needs time to be born.”
Fear was born now, there, inside him.
It was small, but grew with every breath.
The man went to the bathroom again.
Turned on the light.
This time the mirror showed him differently: his eyes looked sunken, the skin beneath them bruised.
As he approached, he saw something move inside the white of his eye.
Something tiny.
An internal tremor.
Like a larva swimming in a pool of blood.
He stepped back.
Stumbled against the wall.
His breath became a pant.
For a second, he thought the mirror breathed with him.
Then he heard a sound, faint, almost a metallic scrape.
He turned toward the door.
The knob moved once.
Slowly.
As if someone on the other side wanted to make sure he was still there.
The ensuing silence was so dense that he could hear the ticking of the clock…
…and the pulse of the poison inside his body.
PAGE 4 —
The man tried to calm himself.
He walked to the window.
Outside, the rain continued, relentless.
Each drop pounded the glass with a hypnotic cadence, as if the city itself breathed to the rhythm of his agony.
The car lights crawled along the street, blurred by the fog, and for a moment he felt the whole world had turned to liquid.
He pressed his forehead against the cold glass.
The reflection from outside mingled with his own image, and behind both, he would swear there was something more.
A still figure.
A silhouette in the reflection, standing right behind him.
He turned abruptly.
Nothing.
Just the empty room, the still air, and the electric hum of the still-on TV.
He sank onto the bed.
The mattress creaked as if a body slept beneath it.
He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come: only brief, piercing visions of underground hallways, of a door with the Soviet emblem and a man signing documents with a black pen.
An office without windows.
A faceless voice saying his full name.
And then, silence.
The same silence that surrounded him now.
He opened his eyes.
Something shone on the floor.
A small luminous speck, the size of a tear.
He crouched to look closer: it was a fragment of radiant dust, white, like a snowflake that wouldn’t melt.
He watched it, fascinated, not understanding.
The air around the glow seemed to tremble.
A vibration, a barely audible frequency.
When he leaned in a bit more, he detected the smell.
It wasn’t perfume, nor metal.
It was something new.
Something that didn’t belong to this world.
And then he understood.
It wasn’t dust.
It was her, the substance.
The presence.
Death made into a particle.
Invisible, odorless, obedient.
He recoiled, staggering.
His stomach tightened again, and this time the vomit came, dark, thick, with a metallic taste that made him cry.
He fell to his knees.
The floor swayed.
Everything seemed to tilt toward a point, as if the room itself were breathing.
He felt his blood pounding in his gums, his eyelids, his nails.
The body became a hollow drum, and inside the drum sounded footsteps.
Slow footsteps.
Regular.
From the hallway.
Someone approached.
His heart slammed in his chest.
He dragged himself to the bed, reached for the phone, but the screen was black, dead.
The sound of footsteps stopped right in front of the door.
A shadow projected underneath, long, still.
And then a strike.
One only.
Soft.
Almost courteous.
“Mr. Litvinenko?” whispered a voice.
And then the man understood that his name no longer belonged to him.
It was only a distorted sound in a story others had decided for him.
The air grew thick.
The light, dull.
And as the figure on the other side slowly turned the knob, the man’s body began to understand what his mind did not want to accept:
the poison was no longer inside him.
It was him.
PAGE 5 —
The doorknob turned.
Just a little.
The sound of metal scraping against metal was so clear that the man held his breath.
For a moment he thought his heart had stopped, but no: it beat so hard it seemed to bang against his skull from the inside.
The door did not open.
Only remained ajar.
A cold breath of air slipped in from the hallway, bringing with it a familiar smell: tobacco, leather, and old snow.
The smell of his country.
The smell of Moscow.
The man trembled.
That mix, that impossible aroma, couldn’t be there.
And yet it was.
Something—or someone—had crossed oceans to reach that room.
He walked slowly toward the door.
Each step sounded louder than the previous one.
The handle still vibrated, as if an invisible hand were still there, squeezing from the other side.
And then, before touching it, he heard him.
A breath.
Deep.
Beastly.
Not human.
It was the sound of winter entering through a crack.
The air grew heavy, as if something immense and white had crouched behind the threshold.
And suddenly he saw it: not with his eyes, but with that part of the soul that still remembers pure fear.
A figure took shape in the dim light of the hallway.
Giant.
Deformed.
Covered in fur that seemed made of smoke and frost.
Two pale, pupil-less eyes watched him with unbearable calm.
The White Bear.
His old codename.
His judgment.
The symbolic creature the service used to speak of power without naming it.
“They say, The White Bear sees all.”
“The White Bear does not forgive.”
The man tried to retreat, but his legs would no longer respond.
The body did not belong to him.
The poison had taken possession, guiding him like an invisible puppeteer.
He heard a voice inside his head, a deep, slow voice, speaking without moving the lips:
—Did you think you could escape?
What could you tell the world about what your shadow saw?
He tried to speak, but only a wisp of air came out.
The figure took a step forward.
The floor trembled.
And in that moment he understood it wasn’t a dream or a vision:
it was the materialization of everything he had served, everything he had destroyed, everything that now claimed him as its own.
The White Bear extended a huge paw, a claw made of darkness and frost.
It touched his chest.
And the man felt his heart stop being his, beating now to the monster’s rhythm.
The lights in the room flickered.
The air filled with a murmur, thousands of voices speaking at once.
One phrase, repeated again and again, rose from the noise:
“The State does not forget.”
And then, silence.
The figure disappeared.
The door closed again.
But the man was no longer the same.
The poison continued its work, yes…
although now it not only destroyed the body, it was erasing his will...TO CONTINUE THE STORY REQUEST A COPY.
Stories
- The Shadow Trade
- The Threads of the Banquet
- Shadows That Poison
- The siloviki ecosystem
- Operation Constancy
- Cardboard allies
- The night they silenced Nemtsov
- The offshore house
- Double reflection
- The countdown and the bear
Publication[]
“The White Bear” was published on October 15, 2025, by Vibras Virtual Publishing in a limited edition of 5,000 copies of the author's version. Available in a variety of formats to suit all readers' preferences, including e-book and audio, the novel has transcended borders, with translations into 25 languages, reflecting its global reach and allowing an international audience to experience this journey through psychological terror, all under the pen of talented author Marcos Orowitz.