The Training Sim didn't open with a weapon this time.It opened with a street.
Narrow, rain‑slick, lined with shuttered shops. Neon signs flickered in languages he half‑recognized. Somewhere ahead, a figure moved — fast, weaving through the crowd. The System's voice was calm.
Operator: Objective — intercept. Collateral minimization: priority.
Mitya's pulse quickened. The Sim had never given him a moving target before. He pushed through the crowd, eyes scanning for angles. The figure glanced back — young, scared, clutching something under a jacket.
A shot was possible. Clean. But the crowd was thick, and the System's moral load meter pulsed amber.
He closed the distance instead, using the press of bodies to mask his approach. When the target broke into an alley, Mitya followed, pinning him against the wall. The "package" was a hard drive. The boy's eyes were wide, terrified.
Outcome: Objective secured. Collateral: none. Moral load: minimal.
The Sim dissolved. He was back in his apartment, the rain still echoing in his ears.
In the real world, Sable called.
"Quick job," Sable said. "Dockside. Guy owes me. You collect."
"Not my line," Mitya replied.
"You're turning down money?"
"I'm turning down noise."
Sable laughed. "Noise is where the money is."
Mitya hung up. The System didn't comment, but he felt the approval in the way the interface seemed to hum.
Colonel Volkov
In her office, Volkov pinned another photo to the board — grainy CCTV from the tram depot. The figure's face was obscured, but the posture was the same in every shot: calm, deliberate, unhurried.
"Whoever he is," she murmured, "he's trained."