Roman liked mornings.
Not because they were peaceful – peace was overrated – but because people were most honest before lunch. Tired executives, anxious ministers, junior partners who hadn't yet been told what to think for the day.
He stood barefoot on the balcony of his apartment, high above the river, caramel latte cooling in one hand and phone in the other. Stockholm was gray today.
"Fire them," Roman said.
His voice was calm, almost bored.
On the other end of the encrypted call, a man swallowed. "All of them?"
"A thousand," Roman replied. "From the manufacturing branch. Close the warehouse, liquidate inventory, sell the land to the shell we registered in Cyprus. I want it repurposed into 'green redevelopment' within six months."
"But–"
Roman smiled.
"But they'll protest," he finished for him. "They'll cry on television. Someone will say 'families'. Someone else will say 'accountability'. And then the Swedish pension foundation will quietly approve our revised proposal because half their board members are already compromised."
He took a sip from his cup.
"Also," he added, "audit the union leaders. One of them is clean. That annoys me."
The line went dead.
Roman turned back inside.
The apartment was tastefully obscene. Caravaggio, Aivazovsky, Raphael, Bryullov, van Honthorst, Rembrandt, and Goya shared the walls. Aristotle stood beside Machiavelli, Plato, Tacitus, Gogol, Bierce, Dostoyevsky, and Schopenhauer. He glanced at the last book he had been reading – The Sun of the Dead by Ivan Shmelev. His mother's influence. She had insisted he learn the classics.
"Beauty without intellect is decoration," she used to say, lighting another cigarette. "Intellect without beauty is wasted."
She had tried to be a Hollywood actress once. Failed gloriously. Married better.
Roman inherited her face.
From his father, he inherited everything else.
His father had gone to Afghanistan as a hopeful Soviet citizen and returned to something that didn't have a name yet. The country collapsed. The rules evaporated. Men like his father didn't mourn long – they noticed the opportunity and seized it.
Strength helped. Intelligence and resolve mattered more. Timing was everything.
You didn't become an oligarch by punching harder than others.
You became one by knowing when to punch, who to bribe, and which corpse to step over without looking down.
Roman was the second son.
The successful and dutiful one.
His older brother – born to the first wife, a woman who still believed words like right and wrong mattered – had broken early. Drugs, resentment, accusations about blood and guilt. Shortly – a disappointment, a fucking loser.
And yet.
Roman knew his father still loved him more. That was the wound that never closed. His father had killed for the first son's future. Bled for it. Built everything with him in mind. Roman ran the empire – but not the origin story.
So he worked harder. He always did.
"London update," Roman said, switching lines.
A woman answered this time. Competent. Educated. Afraid.
"Three embezzlement channels are stable. One is leaking."
"Which one?"
"The cultural preservation fund."
Roman laughed softly. "Of course it is. Art people always think they're different."
"Do we shut it down?"
"No. Frame a mid-level manager. Preferably one with opinions. I want the scandal to look ideological."
"Understood."
"Also," Roman added, "how's our beloved gentrification timeline in Chicago?"
"Phase three begins next quarter. Rent hikes will displace approximately–"
"Good," Roman interrupted. "Buy local media silence. Brand it as 'urban renewal'. Offer one community center. People love eating up shit."
He paused, then smiled.
"Oh – and rename the project. Something hopeful. 'New Horizons' or 'Riverside Dawn'. Americans love dawn."
Victor Maryanovich appeared on the internal feed, grinning like a man who had never once been burdened by introspection.
"Roman," he said cheerfully, "bad news and good news."
"Always start with bad," Roman replied.
"Slave pens in Dubai are overcrowded. Labor efficiency is down. The owners are dissatisfied"
Roman nodded. "Expected."
"The good news," Victor continued, "is Bangladesh picked up the slack. Sweatshops are running triple shifts."
Roman considered this.
"Safety issues? You know it, I worry about it after that Spanish billionaire fucked up."
"Minimal," Victor said, then added brightly, "Parents worry – I punish, harshly punish."
Roman laughed out loud.
"Victor," he said fondly, "you are a moral anchor in a stormy world. Your devotion to your job truly touches my rotten heart."
Victor saluted. "Tits are touched – I punish, harshly punish."
"See?" Roman said to no one in particular. "Consistency."
He ended the calls and finally sat.
For a moment – just a moment – he allowed himself to think.
About England. About the private school halls where boys with worse fathers had sneered at him. Oil princes. Pharma heirs. Casino dynasts. Private prison royalty. Children of men whose decisions killed cities and called it a day.
They bullied him at first.
Then they learned.
Roman had realized something early.
His father's blood-soaked hands were honest.
Theirs were laundered.
Countries invaded weaker ones and called it justice. Millions died, and speeches were given. Flags waved. Awards handed out.
"The strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must," Roman murmured, quoting Thucydides from memory.
He had chosen his side.
If the world insisted on being a jungle, then he would not pretend to be a gardener.
He would rather be the predator.
Roman stood, adjusting his cufflinks, catching his reflection in the glass. Handsome and dangerous. A drama king, perhaps. But every villain deserved a monologue. And Roman always planned to speak last.
But still, he had places to be.
The invitation had been handwritten.
Not literally – Roman wasn't sentimental – but formatted to look handwritten, complete with slight asymmetries and an anachronistic serif font that suggested taste. It arrived through a channel that did not exist, delivered by a courier who left no digital shadow and could not be traced backward without tearing holes in three jurisdictions.
That alone made it worth his time.
Regarding the Securing of a Second Birth.
Location enclosed.
Discretion appreciated.
Roman snorted when he read it.
Reincarnation was a children's story. A religious cope. A consolation prize for people who had failed to win this life. Still – someone he did not know had reached him directly. No government he dealt with moved so clumsily.
Which meant either:
1. They were amateurs.
2. They were not playing the same game.
Both possibilities amused him. He left his apartment.
The bar was aggressively ordinary.
Low ceiling. Sticky floor. The smell of beer and fried fat soaked into the walls. A place for men who worked with their hands and drank with the same hands afterward. No cameras worth mentioning. No visible security.
Roman smiled.
Of course.
He arrived alone.
At the far end of the bar sat a young woman.
Too composed. Too still. Wearing jeans and a plain jacket that looked deliberately unremarkable. Her hair was dark, tied back carelessly, her face pretty in a way that refused to advertise itself.
She looked up exactly when he approached.
"Roman," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "You already disappoint me. People who know my name usually try harder to impress me."
She smiled faintly. "Sit."
He did.
They regarded each other for a moment – two predators pretending to be human.
"Your name?" Roman asked.
"Li Mei," she replied.
He nodded once. "Chinese," he said. "Mainland cadence. State-trained posture. You're either intelligence or pretending very hard to be."
"Does it matter?" she asked.
"Only socially," Roman replied. "So I know which lies to use."
She laughed softly.
"Then I'll be honest," Li Mei said. "I represent an organization that specializes in continuity."
"Ah," Roman said. "You're selling immortality."
"No," she corrected gently. "We're selling placement."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Reincarnation is nonsense. Consciousness degrades. Memory doesn't survive death. Souls are metaphors."
Li Mei nodded. "You're wrong."
"Of course I am," Roman said. "That's what makes this fun."
She leaned forward. "In exchange for a simple transaction, we can ensure your next birth is… advantageous."
Roman laughed openly now. "You should have opened it with blackmail. This is amateur hour."
"Do you want proof?" she asked.
He leaned back. "Entertain me."
Li Mei glanced around the bar. "How many souls do you think you could buy here?"
Roman followed her gaze. Twelve people. Maybe thirteen. Men and women. Tired. Drunk. Bored.
"Souls?" he repeated. "None. People don't believe they have them."
"Money makes people believe many things," she said.
Roman stood.
He did not raise his voice – he projected it.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, spreading his arms theatrically, "I'm feeling generous tonight. I will give one million dollars to anyone here willing to sell me their soul."
Laughter erupted.
Cheers. Whistles. Someone shouted something obscene.
"A million for the soul!" Roman continued. "Cash transfer. No taxes. No refunds."
Hands went up immediately.
One man laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. "Hell, I'll throw in my eldest kid for another million!"
The bar roared.
Li Mei stood.
She moved fast – contracts appearing in her hands like stage magic, thin sheets of paper that felt heavier than they looked. She distributed them calmly.
"Sign here," she said pleasantly. "For the joke."
They signed.
Every one of them.
The moment the last signature dried, the bar went silent. Not quiet. Silent.
Then bodies slumped.
Some forward. Some sideways. Some simply stopped moving, beer still halfway to their lips. No screaming. No blood. No drama.
Roman blinked.
Once.
Twice.
He checked for cameras. Pranks. Gas. Some elaborate performance art meant to rattle him.
His phone vibrated.
–$14,000,000
He stared at the screen.
Fourteen souls. One extra child.
The math was clean.
Roman slowly looked up.
Li Mei was watching him with professional interest.
He smiled.
"You're too pretty to be Pavel Chichikov," he said lightly. "Is this your whole business? Buying dead souls?"
"Not dead," she corrected. "Transferred."
Roman exhaled, long and thoughtful.
"All right," he said. "Explain it to me like I'm an idiot."
Li Mei nodded.
"This realm is small," she said. "Finite. Closed. We run a system here – rewards, incentives, continuity. But nothing can be created from nothing. When we offer rewards, they must be real. Money must come from somewhere. Souls must be paid for."
"And you reincarnate people," Roman said slowly, "using these… assets."
"Yes."
"And you want me, why?" he asked. "I'm just capital."
Li Mei met his eyes. "You are special, and have a lot of money."
Roman laughed. A genuine laugh. He sat back down, steepling his fingers.
"How high," he asked, "can you place me?"
"With what you've just purchased?" she said. "Very high."
"And if I offer more?"
She tilted her head. "How much more?"
Roman thought for a long moment.
Then he smiled like a man going on with the joke.
"All of it," he said.
Li Mei placed the contract on the table.
$67,000,000,000 + 14 Souls
Roman signed without hesitation.
The ink dried.
Reality tore.
The bar exploded outward in a bloom of fire, glass and time shattering together – and Roman's last thought, as everything came apart, was not fear but shock.