The city was quiet in the way only a winter night could make it — the streets muffled under a thin crust of frost, the harbor cranes frozen in place like sentinels. Mitya sat at his desk, the weapon within reach, Ledger numbers glowing faintly in his vision.
The System's voice came without preamble.
Operator: Compartmentalization protocol available. Module: Cleanroom — full access.
The room around him shimmered, edges softening until the walls dissolved into white. The Cleanroom was not a place; it was an absence. No sound, no scent, no temperature. Just him, the System, and a table with a single black folder.
The Lesson
Operator: Survival is not only action. It is separation. You will build compartments.
The folder opened itself. Inside were profiles — not of people, but of versions of him. Each one had a name, a history, a set of habits. Some were dockside laborers. Some were students. One was a courier who never asked questions.
Rule One: No compartment knows the others exist.Rule Two: The Operator is the only constant.Rule Three: Breach equals collapse.
Mitya understood. This was about masks — not the kind you wore on your face, but the kind you wore in your life. He began to shape them, each with its own speech patterns, contacts, and digital fingerprints. The System guided his hands, showing him how to create trails that led nowhere, how to make a name appear in a ledger without ever existing.
The Interruption
The shimmer broke. He was back in his apartment, the cold air biting at his skin. His phone — the real one — buzzed. Unknown number.
"Mitya," the voice said, smooth and amused. "It's Sable."
He didn't answer.
"I have another job," Sable continued. "This one's less… tidy. But it pays better. And it will tell me if you're worth the trouble."
The System pulsed in his mind.
Operator: External variable attempting integration. Risk: elevated. Potential gain: significant.
"What's the job?" Mitya asked.
"Let's just say," Sable replied, "it's about removing an obstacle. Not a crate this time."
The Decision
He ended the call without agreeing. The System waited, silent, as if letting him feel the weight of the choice.
The Cleanroom folder was still open in his mind. One of the identities he'd built — a nameless shadow with no ties — seemed to look back at him.
If he took Sable's job, it wouldn't be Mitya Rybakov doing it. It would be that man. And if it went wrong, only that man would burn.
Operator: Compartmentalization complete. You may proceed.
Outside, the harbor lights flickered in the wind. Inside, Mitya felt the first real separation between who he was and who he could be.