The call came just after midnight.Not to Mitya Rybakov — to the man he had built in the Cleanroom. The name on the burner phone's screen was one he'd never given to anyone in his real life. That was the point.
"You're late," Sable's voice said."I'm here now," Mitya replied, using the flatter, clipped tone he'd assigned to this identity."Good. The target's moving in an hour. You'll intercept."
The Brief
The System overlaid the details in his mind:
Objective: Intercept and "remove" a courier carrying sensitive data.Location: Abandoned tram depot, outskirts of Vladivostok.Risk: High.Complication: Civilian presence possible.Reward: 3,000.00 + Reputation Increment.
Operator: Moral load potential — elevated.
Mitya's jaw tightened. "Remove" was the System's polite word for something final. He'd drawn a line in his own rules about killing outside of direct threat. But this wasn't Mitya Rybakov's job — it was the other man's.
The Approach
The tram depot was a skeleton of rusted rails and shattered glass. Vega was already there, crouched in the shadows, scanning the perimeter.
"Two guards," Vega murmured. "Courier in the center car. Civilian on the far platform — drunk, not part of the op."
Mitya's HUD painted the scene in clean lines. The courier was pacing, checking a satchel every few seconds. The guards were bored, their rifles slung carelessly.
The Choice
Operator: Recommend neutralization of all hostiles. Collateral risk minimal.
He could take the shot now — clean, efficient, no witnesses except the drunk who wouldn't remember his own name in the morning. But the line he'd drawn in the Cleanroom wasn't just for show.
"Vega," he said quietly, "we take the guards. I'll handle the courier."
The Execution
Vega moved like a shadow unhooked from its owner. Two muffled impacts, and the guards were down, breathing but out cold.
Mitya stepped into the tram car. The courier spun, hand going for the satchel. Mitya's weapon was already up.
"Put it down," he said.
The man hesitated, eyes flicking to the open door. Mitya shook his head once. Slowly, the courier set the satchel on the seat.
Operator: Objective incomplete. Removal required.
"Not this time," Mitya said under his breath. He pulled a small injector from his jacket — a System-supplied sedative — and pressed it to the man's neck. The courier slumped, alive but out of the game.
The Delivery
The satchel went into the Cleanroom, vanishing in a shimmer. The System confirmed receipt.
Ledger: 6,200.00Reputation: +4 (Novice Tier)Note: Objective modified. Efficiency: acceptable. Moral load: reduced.
The Fallout
Sable was waiting in the same black Volga when Mitya returned to the city.
"You didn't finish the job," Sable said, not angry, just curious.
"I finished my job," Mitya replied.
Sable studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "Interesting. Most people don't get to choose."
The Volga pulled away, leaving Mitya on the curb. The System's voice was quiet, almost approving.
Operator: Directive integrity maintained. Compartment stability — strong.
For the first time, Mitya felt the compartments weren't just masks. They were shields — and he'd need them, because the next job would come soon, and the lines would only get harder to hold.