The Cleanroom was quieter than usual.
Not the absence‑of‑sound quiet that always came with its white horizon, but a deeper stillness, as if the System itself were holding its breath. Mitya stood in the middle of the endless space, hands loose at his sides, waiting for whatever had brought him here.
The voice came without preamble.
Operator: Directive protocol available. Operators may define personal parameters for contract acceptance and execution. Warning: Directives may conflict with optimal outcomes.
A panel unfolded in front of him — black, featureless, waiting for input. At the top, a single blinking cursor.
Writing the Rules
He stared at the empty space for a long moment. The System had never offered him the chance to set his own boundaries before. It had given him tools, contracts, and consequences, but never the option to say this far, no further.
He began to type.
Directive One: No civilian casualties.Directive Two: No contracts that destabilize neutral regions.Directive Three: No betrayal of allies or operatives.Directive Four: No trafficking in weapons of mass destruction.Directive Five: No contract without full intel.
The words looked stark against the black panel, stripped of any justification or explanation. Just rules. Lines in the sand.
The System processed them in silence.
Directives recorded. Enforcement: conditional. Override possible by Operator consent. Note: Directives may reduce profit potential.
"I'm aware," Mitya said.
Acknowledged.
The panel folded away, leaving only the white horizon. For the first time in months, he felt something like relief — as if he'd anchored himself against a current he couldn't see.
Sable's Invitation
The relief lasted less than a day.
He was at the harbor the next evening, watching the cranes swing against the sunset, when Sable's black Volga rolled up beside him. The passenger window slid down.
"Get in," Sable said.
Mitya hesitated, then opened the door.
They drove in silence to a private room above a dockside bar. The air smelled of salt and old wood. Sable poured two glasses of vodka, slid one across the table.
"I've got a job," Sable said. "High‑pay, low‑risk. Perfect for you."
Mitya waited.
"There's a militia in a border town," Sable continued. "They want hardware. Heavy stuff. They're paying triple market rate."
Mitya's mind flicked to Directive Two: No contracts that destabilize neutral regions.
"That town's neutral," he said.
"For now," Sable replied. "But neutrality's just a word until someone buys it."
"I'm not interested."
Sable leaned back, studying him. "Since when do you turn down money?"
"Since I started thinking about the cost."
Sable's smile was thin. "Constraints are just excuses you tell yourself so you can sleep."
The System's Temptation
Back in his apartment, the System's interface pulsed.
New Contract Available:Type: SupplyDestination: Border town militiaReward: 38,000.00 + Reputation Increment (Advanced Tier)Complication: Political destabilization likely.Directive Conflict: #2
Override Directive #2?
Mitya stared at the prompt. The number was large enough to make his pulse quicken. The jump in reputation would open new modules. But the map in his mind showed the ripple: a neutral town armed to the teeth, neighbors forced to respond, the region sliding toward open conflict.
"No," he said.
Acknowledged. Opportunity cost: 38,000.00.
The Influence module lit up, showing a rival crew already circling the job. If he refused, they'd take it — and gain a foothold in the region.
Pressure Points
That night, an anonymous message arrived through the System's secure channel.
If you won't take the job, someone else will — and they won't care who gets hurt.
He didn't need to guess who had sent it. The phrasing was pure Sable.
Mitya opened the Influence module. There were ways to stop the shipment without taking the contract himself. Ways that wouldn't break his Directive.
He set the plan in motion:
Leak false intel to the militia about the rival crew's reliability.
Arrange for a "random" customs inspection on the rival's transport route.
Seed rumors in the buyer's network about a better supplier — one that didn't exist.
The Outcome
Three days later, the rival crew's shipment was seized at a checkpoint. The militia's interest cooled. The job evaporated.
The System updated.
Directive integrity maintained. Strategic position: unchanged. Profit: none.
Mitya closed the module. He'd made nothing. He'd gained nothing. But the line he'd drawn was still there.
Sable's Reaction
He ran into Sable a week later at the fish market. The older man was buying smoked mackerel, his coat collar turned up against the wind.
"You cost me a payday," Sable said without looking at him.
"You'll survive."
Sable glanced at him, eyes narrowing. "You think you're different. You're not. You're just earlier in the story."
Mitya didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The Cleanroom Again
That night, he returned to the Cleanroom. The white horizon stretched around him, the panel with his Directives hovering in the air.
He read them again, slowly. They were just words, but they were the only thing standing between him and the kind of operator who would take any job, for any price.
The System's voice was almost gentle.
Operator: Directives are parameters. Parameters can be changed.
"Not these," Mitya said.
Acknowledged.
The panel folded away. The horizon remained.
Ledger: 56,200.00Reputation: +12 (Advanced Tier)Note: Operator Directives active.