Alright.
Remember this. If I’m telling the story—I’m telling all of it. You want to know
who Eisen Eisbär really is? You want to know where this iron bear came from,
the one who fears neither your laws, nor your utopias, nor your wars?

Then
listen. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. This is a story about how a system
creates its own gravediggers.

My name was
Liram Thorn. I was born on the remote colony of Beastarion, in a family that
didn’t fit into your beautiful, well-oiled paradise. We were among those
“communism” forgot in the outer quarters—places that smell not of creative
spirit, but of dust and cheap synthetics. I was also born “broken.” Spinal
muscular atrophy. In a world that could cure a thousand diseases, my rare
syndrome was a death sentence—gene therapy too expensive for a family with no
connections. My medicine became implants. Early, crude, humming inside me like
angry hornets. We moved to a low-gravity colony—just so I could breathe without
pain. I was a living reminder that your system isn’t perfect. And everyone knew
it. Especially the kids at school, with their words sharp as daggers. That’s
how I learned—to answer a blow of fate with a blow of sarcasm. The weapon of
the weak.

But the
true weapon of the weak is the indifference of the strong.

A
catastrophe? You want to hear about a catastrophe? It wasn’t a “collision.” It
was a sentence. A “gift” from fate on my coming of age.

We were
flying for a routine checkup, a few days before my twentieth birthday—then I
was to leave for a five-year pilgrimage.

A cargo
shuttle—whose navigation system, as later discovered, had failed—became
uncontrollable. It didn’t just “hit” us. It rammed straight through our
residential block, like a red-hot knife through butter.

Explosion.
Crackling. And then—silence. No, not silence. A roar. The roar of air rushing
into the black void. The lights went out; only emergency beacons remained,
stabbing my eyes with blood-red flashes.

My parents
didn’t scream. They acted. Mother shoved me toward the emergency shield—a heavy
armored slab meant to slide out and seal the breach. Father rushed to the
panel. The shield crept down with a clang, too slow. I crawled with all my
remaining strength, but my body—weak from birth—betrayed me. I was almost
through the opening when the mechanism screamed in agony and jammed. Derailed.

It didn’t
slam shut. It toppled forward, like a falling door.

I saw the
lower edge of that multi-ton mass cover my shins. There was no impact—only
instantaneous, monstrous pressure, the crunch of bone and internal
synth-fibers. Instinctively, I threw up my right hand, trying to push back the
unstoppable. The shield’s steel edge slammed into my palm and pinned it to the
metal frame of the hatch. That was it.

No pain.
Just an icy, absolute shock and the growing pressure that was turning my limbs
into wet pulp. Then I saw their faces. Just for a second. Mother looking at me
through the narrowing gap. Father shouting something—but sound no longer
reached me. Then the shield jerked one last time, sealing the breach
completely. And they were gone.

I lay
there, pinned by my own shattered body, listening to the blood pound in my
ears. It wasn’t me. It was an accident that should have been prevented. All I
could do was wait and stare at the red emergency light, flashing at the
frequency of my fading pulse. They cut me out forty minutes later.

Later I
read the report: “Emergency systems activated with a 38-second delay due to
low-priority power grid overload.”

Our sector
was “low priority.”

The system
left me no choice. As an orphaned adult with a disability, I received the
standard package: basic “crooked” prosthetics, a welfare stipend, and a ticket
to the “Assistance” program. The caring machine of the state sent me—barely
recovered—to spend five years atoning for a crime I didn’t commit. On my new,
creaking legs.

The
pilgrimage became my true academy. Not of grace, but of the underground. Among
other outcasts, I first heard the phantom name: Re-Touch. He who remakes flesh
into steel. From that moment, every day, every credit of my meager wages had
one goal: to save enough for that name to answer.

After I
returned, the hunt began. Three years. I was a ghost, haunting the back alleys
of different planets and distant stations. I paid for hints, worked off debts
for scraps of data. I sold everything except my goal. I was the perfect client:
patient, relentless, and utterly willing to burn my past in the furnace of new
implants. I wasn’t just buying prosthetics. I was buying metamorphosis.

I found
Re-Touch. Everyone in the underground knows the name. No one knows the face.
He—she? it?—is a broker. A phantom. Through him, I got my first truly advanced
implant. Not just a prosthetic. An enhancement. When I first clenched my new
cybernetic hand and felt the steel fist pulverize a concrete slab… that wasn’t
a sound. It was music. The music of power. The power that had been stolen from
me at birth.

I got
hooked. Not on the metal. On the feeling. On the power flowing back with every
new upgrade. I replaced an eye—to see the world in spectra that hide deception.
I reinforced my frame—to not just walk, but to carry a weight that could crush
those who once laughed at me. Every implant wasn’t just a part. It was a brick
in the wall between me and that fragile, broken Liram.

I buried
him. Along with the name.

Now I am
Eisen Eisbär. Iron Bear. I am the embodiment of your utopia’s failure. I am a
mercenary. And I will work for anyone: for gangsters, for corporations, for
rebels, even for the state itself in its dirty dealings it can’t do officially.
I have no loyalty. I have a price. And my price is the chance to become
stronger—so I will never again be that guy under the rubble, the one the system
deemed “low priority.”

“And what
about the money? Where did a crippled orphan get the credits for steel that
costs more than a starship? That’s probably the first thing you thought,
right?” I didn’t find it. It was given to me. Or rather, an account was opened
for me. Through Re-Touch, a certain individual approached me. He said he saw
potential. That the system had thrown away a diamond, mistaking it for glass.
He offered a deal: his master would rebuild my body. And I would work off every
credit—first for the legs, then the arm, then the eye—through his assignments.
The dirtiest, most unthinkable tasks. He didn’t ask if I agreed. He asked: “Do
you want to be strong again, Liram? Or do you want to keep crawling?”

It was the
easiest choice of my life. So yes, I have an employer. And I have a debt. And
I’m paying it off. Bullet by bullet, contract by contract. Until one day I
close it for good—with a bullet through the one who thought he could buy me
forever.

So if you
need something from me—speak. Discuss the contract. But don’t talk to me about
duty, honor, or the good of society. I’ve already paid my price. All of it. In
full. And now society will pay me.

---

Chapter 1. The
Ticking Detonator

The
contract reeked of cheap lies from the start. A private company researching
phase crystals—that’s what the scientists call them—named “CrystalX.” A firm
with a loud name and a dubious reputation. Their sensors supposedly detected an
energy surge in an empty sector, and they “had no capability” to send their own
people. Any fool would have smelled a trap. But the surge patterns bore the
signature of a magnetar. And where there’s a magnetar, there’s a chance to find
not just a storm crystal, but its primordial anomaly. The kind you can’t buy on
the black market. The kind that could be worth a fortune—or burn your ship to
cinders on approach. Exactly the sort of thing Re-Touch would pay for… or that
could become my ticket to freedom.

I took the
job. Payment in advance. Attached to the fee were three hermetic
containers—“just in case.” I checked them for hidden beacons. Clean. So the
target was either hyper-unstable or radiating so hard even cargo markings would
burn off. I loaded my own gear: spectral analyzers, pulse jammers, extra lead
sheathing for the shields. If you’re crawling into a stellar plague nursery,
you wear the right suit.

Four days
in jump. I spent them on simulations and archives. “Storm crystals”—natural
batteries and landmines rolled into one. Blue ones: relatively stable, mined
with minimal risk, but strictly by the book. Purple ones: already playing
roulette with a plasma round. And red ones… data on red crystals trailed off
into footnotes: “theoretical class,” “catastrophic instability,” and “the only
documented specimen destroyed the orbital laboratory Pallada.” They weren’t
mined. They were feared.

The first
four systems were duds. Dust, gas, ordinary blue storm crystals—the galaxy’s
background radiation. I collected samples for show. On the fifth day, the
scanners screamed. Instead of a normal star, a red giant, which had devoured
its worlds unnaturally fast. Nature here was going mad, and on the scorched
planets bloomed entire fields of purple crystals. I took core samples with a remote
drill. Even through the manipulator’s shielding, I could feel their acrid,
intrusive hum crawling under my cortex. Good contraband for smugglers, but not
what I was hired for.

On the
sixth day, I saw it. The magnetar. Not a star—a universe in agony. Even on
approach, the ship’s shields groaned, and a thin, whistling screech drilled
into my temples. The mineral deposits in my bones were resonating. Scanning the
planets was pointless—the radiation fried everything. Only old-fashioned
methods remained: dive into the shadow of one of the two colossal rock bodies.

The surface
was a miniature hell. And across the black, sintered ground ran red sparks. Not
a glow—a pulsation, as if the planet itself breathed in rhythm with the
magnetar. I didn’t go out. I deployed a remote manipulator with a sampler made
of hardened neutronium-ceramide. Omega-class protocol. The first crystal,
fist-sized, lay in the open. The manipulator carefully closed its grippers,
sending a stabilization pulse.

And the
universe exploded.

Not with
light—with silence. A white, absolute silence in which every sensor died.
“Well, that’s the end of the fairy tale,” flashed through my mind—a scrap of
some old Earth proverb. Adrenaline, which I technically shouldn’t have anymore,
fired synthetic substitutes into my blood. In my temples: sharp, chemically
pure cold. Not fear—pure, almost mathematical realization: shields failing, one
minute to decide, this body is worth millions in credits, and it’s all about to
turn into superdense plasma. The irony would have been exquisite if it weren’t
so damned banal. Again, “low priority.” Again, someone’s negligence. Again, me
at the epicenter. Then the wave came—distorted by the magnetar’s gravity. It
didn’t strike the shields; it bent space around the ship. The cockpit went
dark, neural links momentarily severed. On the external camera, I watched the
manipulator—and half the probe with it—vaporize in a cloud of superdense
plasma. Not an explosion. A phase transition of matter. What the Pallada report
had described.

Systems
shrieked about critical shield failure. I had less than a minute. My thoughts
flowed with icy speed: Red class. Primordial. Reacts not to pressure, but to
the quantum field of a stabilizer. Idiots… they’re not looking for a power
source. They’re hunting a hyper-dimensional detonator.

I didn’t
risk a second probe. I swung the ship around, burned full thrust into the
shadow of the nearest rock, and from there—without exposing myself—deployed one
of their “gifts.” The special container was a shield in itself. On autopilot,
it rammed the ground next to another sparkling cluster, snapped shut, and
returned to the bay, sealing the specimen inside two meters of lead, ceramide,
and frozen helium.

The return
trip was the longest of my life. Not because of time. Because of the ticking
black hole in my cargo hold. I didn’t sleep. I monitored. Pressure, radiation,
quantum fluctuations. My cybernetic arm—the one that could have touched the
crystal—kept clenching its fist involuntarily. A phantom impulse from the lost
manipulator. The red storm crystal. Pure instability. Even Berserker scavengers
wouldn’t touch that trash—too honest a death.

When I
docked at their anonymous station, I had no adrenaline left. Only cold, honed
fury. I handed over the container—tons of rock with tiny, hellish “seeds”
sealed inside. Their technician, reeking of cheap deodorant and fear, stammered
about “incomplete compliance with the TOR.”

I didn’t
argue. I played the recording. My own voice, distorted by interference but recognizable:
“…reacts to a quantum field… they’re looking for a hyper-dimensional
detonator.”

Silence
hung on the line, cut only by the hiss of static. Then a new voice, flat,
synthesized: “Your terms?”

“Double the
fee,” I said, staring at the sensor readings from my hold—where a second,
smaller capsule lay hidden, one they hadn’t accounted for. “And the full
material analysis report. Not a summary. For my personal survival archive.”

They paid.
And sent the file. Half the data was redacted, but the rest was enough. The red
crystal wasn’t just rare. It was a superfluid condensate of collapse energy,
theoretically the fuel for a new generation of jump drives—and simultaneously,
the perfect payload for a bomb capable of tearing space apart. Harvesting such
a specimen was punishable by ASIN with immediate termination of the carrier.

I gave them
their share of the ore. My half—with another, smaller shard hidden in a false
bottom lined with blue storm crystal fragments (perfect camouflage; their
background radiation drowns out everything else)—I kept for myself. The
procedure was simple and as old as lying itself: beneath a layer of blue
shards, a sealed capsule with a lead lining, and inside—a splinter the size of
a finger, pulsing with a quiet, mad heat. The camouflage was elementary but
effective: the blue crystals generated such intense background noise that
CrystalX’s own techs never thought to look for anything else in that pile of
rock. Not for sale. For a future conversation. Someday, when my debt to Re-Touch
was nearly paid, such a card could become… a persuasive argument for
renegotiating terms.

For now, my
neural interface burns, old scars ache, and in my cargo hold, a small, insane
piece of a dead star ticks away. Life, as always, is delightful.

---

Chapter 2. “At the Source”

A couple of
months passed after the crystal job when a certain individual contacted me. She
insisted on a face-to-face meeting, refusing to disclose details over the
comm—afraid of surveillance. The conversation only gave a date, time, and
place.

Before the
appointed day, I did my research. The meeting place turned out to be a café-bar
called “At the Source.” An unremarkable establishment, not too popular. It was
a wonder it was still afloat.

The day of
the meeting was gray and overcast. A light drizzle fell. Before reaching the
café, I scanned the surrounding area with a quick glance. Two individuals
raised suspicion: one on a bench, buried in a news tablet; another loitering
near the entrance, checking his watch repeatedly. Inside, I mentally mapped
escape routes in case of a raid. I’d studied the building layout in advance…
Main entrance, service exit, warehouse doors. And in a pinch—the good old
trick: if there’s no exit, make one yourself.

The café
was surprisingly cozy. Almost immediately, a waitress approached me—a rare
phenomenon in our age of electronic menus and androids.

“First time
here? Anywhere special you’d like to sit?” she asked, her voice calm, a hint of
playfulness. “Or maybe you’re meeting someone? New faces don’t show up often
here—mostly regulars, locals. Practically one big family!” She spoke as if we
were old acquaintances.

“Exactly
that. I have a meeting.”

“Let me
think…” She paused for a second. “Ah! Over there, in the corner. With a glass
of tea. Waiting for an acquaintance.”

“Thanks,” I
said, extending my hand with a few credit chips. “This is for you.”

The
waitress raised her eyebrows in surprise:

“But you
haven’t ordered anything!”

“That’s for
the information. Information has to be paid for,” I replied, heading toward the
corner booth. On the way, I nodded toward the counter: “And bring me black
coffee. Nothing in it.”

Now I
understood how this place kept its doors open. Homey atmosphere, soft lighting,
unobtrusive music. People came here not to show off, but to escape the noise
and socialize. Its lack of popularity, apparently, was its main asset—everyone
here was among their own.

Approaching
the corner, I made out the woman. She was sitting almost with her back to me,
wearing a brown trench coat, a light silk scarf covering her head. My scan
immediately detected a pistol.

“So, you’re
the mysterious stranger?” I smirked sardonically. “A modified Scorpion. If you
wanted me dead, you’d have picked something more serious than that toy.”

“If I
wanted you dead, I’d have hired a killer,” came the calm reply. Her voice was
low, confident. “The pistol is loaded with tranquilizers. See for yourself.”

She drew
the weapon. I ejected the magazine—inside were capsules of toxin.

“I’m not a
fan of murder. But if necessary, I’ll load live rounds.”

“You know
who I am… but I know nothing about you. Maybe introduce yourself? Otherwise,
there’s no deal.”

“Leonia
Raud. Research associate with ASIN. You can call me Lia.” She said it with a
strange internal sensation. His hidden facial features… as if she’d glimpsed
them in old, worn-out dreams. Foolishness. Fatigue from working with archives.

At that
moment, the waitress brought my coffee. I nodded, took the cup, but didn’t
drink—just set it in front of me.

She lowered
her hood, revealing her face: young, with sharp cheekbones and eyes too keen. A
brief glitch in my neural interface, a flash of déjà vu—as if I knew her. I
dismissed it. ASIN employee. I’d seen her in the news. That was all.

“Something
on your mind?” she asked, and in her gaze flickered not business interest, but
something sharp, analytical. She wasn’t watching my eyes—she was tracking the
minute muscles around my mouth, the set of my ears—those uncontrollable, primal
reactions even a cyborg can’t fully suppress. She was studying me.

“Are you
going to order something, or shall we get straight to business?”

I took a
sip of coffee. It was strong and bitter, the way it should be.

“Straight
to business,” I snapped out of my reverie. A research associate… Right. One of
those who watch our common ancestors rot in their cages on prison planets and
write dissertations on their degradation. Very “scientific,” I said, my tone
dripping sarcasm as I leaned back against the corner booth’s upholstery.

“If you
think every ASIN scientist is like that, you’re deeply mistaken,” she
countered, taking a couple of sips of tea. “My field is studying their
development and evolution—not degradation! I wanted to study them in person,
but in laboratory conditions it’s difficult. What they deliver are either
half-dead, incapacitated specimens or mutilated corpses. Scout drones don’t
capture the full picture I need.”

“Ah. So
you’re something of an activist for feral rights? How noble.” My words dripped
with mockery. “Tell me, Leonia Raud—when was the last time you looked a feral
in the eye? And what did you see there—a ‘galactic-level threat’ or your own
reflection?”

I watched
Lia, saw her barely restrain her fury. Her grip on the mug tightened. It seemed
a little more and it would shatter in her hands.

“As I said
earlier,” she replied, restrained, “I haven’t had the opportunity to encounter
a living—at least, a sane—specimen. If I did, I would see hope… Hope for their
cure.”

The
biometric scanner in my eye registered a spike in blood pressure, pupil
constriction, micro-tremors in the muscles of her forearm gripping the mug.
Interesting, I noted coldly, this anger… too personal for a mere scientist.

“Hope for a
cure,” she repeated, slowly setting down the mug. Her gaze sharpened like a
blade. “As if you don’t understand that, Eisen Eisbär. You spent time and
credits to ‘cure’ your body with steel. Isn’t your cybernetics proof that even
what the system calls ‘broken’ can be fixed and made stronger? I’m just looking
for another method. Not for one body, but for an entire species!”

The
conversation had grown so loud and sharp that the bartender glanced uneasily
toward our corner, and a couple of patrons at the next table hurried to finish
their meals. The same waitress approached our table.

“Excuse me,
please…” she began in a trembling voice. “Could you keep it down a bit? You’re
scaring the other customers. Thank you!” She smiled softly.

I fell
silent. My one organic eye momentarily lost focus, staring at the wall. Then I
abruptly reached for my cup (which was empty by then) and, realizing it, pushed
it aside irritably. When I spoke again, my voice was flat as titanium plate.

“All right,
savior of ferals. Why me, specifically? Why not any other mercenary? They
charge less and shoot just as well. What’s the difference?”

“The
difference?” She drank some tea to ease the tension. “There is one. And it’s
significant. Many of them aren’t burdened with intellect; others might betray
you, sell you out, sell you into slavery or worse.”

“Hm.
Interesting logic. Although partially true. Mercenaries are plentiful, but
finding a good one isn’t easy…”

“That’s
what I’m saying. Shall we switch to informal?”

“Go ahead,”
I waved a hand.

“I’ve heard
you’re one of the few Bistarians who voluntarily upgrade your body. Not for
medical reasons.”

“Yeah,
that’s right. Does it bother you?” I replied tensely.

“No!” she
shot back just as sharply. “That’s purely my interest. I usually only meet
those who simply replace a lost limb. May I take a look at yours?” She gazed
with curiosity at the vague outline of my cyber-arm beneath my cloak.

For an
instant, I froze. My right hand under the cloak clenched involuntarily into a
fist; a quiet, menacing hum of servos sounded. Silence. Then—a low, mechanical
chuckle.

“You’re
bold!” I looked at her with a sardonic grin. “Asking a mercenary to show his
primary weapon… Brave. I like that.” There was a metallic rasp in my voice.
“Are you sure you want to see it? This isn’t a medical prosthetic. This is one
of the reasons some call me the Iron Bear.”

I mused to
myself… Show the arm? Risky. But… there was no disgust in her request. Only
cold, scientific interest. Like an engineer eyeing a unique mechanism.

“Yes, I
do!” She nodded firmly. “I’ve seen mutilated, dead ferals and worked with them.
This is just a cyber-prosthetic.”

Slowly,
without breaking eye contact, I shrugged the cloak off my right shoulder. From
the folds of fabric emerged not an arm, but an engineering marvel and nightmare
combined: a massive frame of black polymer and matte metal, mimicking muscular
contours but ten times more powerful. In place of a hand—a universal gripper
with retractable manipulators and a tool port. I laid this construction on the
table. The table creaked slightly under its weight.

“Satisfied?”
I snapped. “Not for handshakes. Not designed for fine motor skills—but it can
pull a trigger.”

Lia didn’t
flinch. She froze, her gaze locked onto the mechanism. There was no fear in it,
only an investigator’s curiosity and a sudden, overwhelming realization.

“So that’s
it…” she whispered. She leaned closer. “Total replacement with preserved
kinematics… But integration at the spinal nerve ganglion level. That’s… mastery
comparable to the Masters’ own technology. And zero rejection…” She raised her
eyes to me, and a new fire burned in them. “Your bio-assimilation rates for
implants… they’re nearly zero. To the local biota, you’d be almost invisible. I
need someone exactly like you. Your biochemistry… your Beastarion`s immune
system doesn’t attack implants. As far as I know, all prosthetics severely
suppress our tactile abilities. Yours too?”

I
instinctively rubbed the edge of the table with the fingers of my left, organic
hand, trying to feel the texture of the wood, then stopped in irritation.

“Very
likely. I haven’t had the occasion for physical contact with members of our
species…”

Lia froze.
Her professional fervor shifted into sudden, almost tangible sorrow. She wasn’t
looking at the arm—she was looking into my eyes, the one remaining.

“You
haven’t had the occasion…” she repeated softly, and for the first time, her
voice held not challenge but something resembling compassion. “Eisen… Do
you realize what that means? You
haven’t just cut yourself off from pain. You’ve cut yourself off from the very
essence of our people. From trust, from instantaneous understanding.”

“That
‘essence’ you speak of didn’t save my parents. Didn’t keep them from falling
into the void. It’s just an illusion. Steel is reality. I chose reality.”

“Fine.
Reality. Let’s talk reality,” Lia said, straightening. Her voice was once again
clear and businesslike, but now with a new undertone—respect for the price I’d
paid. “Your reality is that arm with its unique capabilities. My reality is the
need to study our ancestors to find the key to their… to our cure. So? Are you
in?”

“What are
the terms and the objective?”

“Glad you
asked. The objective: escort me on an expedition to a yellow-level quarantine
planet. On which—” I cut her off.

“Stop. First,
I haven’t agreed yet. Second, why do you need me? Doesn’t ASIN send its own
personnel there?”

A sigh.
“Yes and no. They don’t allow scientific staff on red- and yellow-category
planets. Only green—for studying Masters’ ships, if present. That’s why I want
to hire you.”

“And what’s
so important there that you’re willing to take such risks and go against the
system?”

“It’s one
of the few planets where a tribal society has formed. Nomadic, too. The
interesting part is that they are less aggressive than comparable populations
on other planets.”

“And the
problem? As far as I know, you have observation probes and drones on such
planets.”

“That’s
precisely the problem. While others either destroy the drones or ignore them,
these ones systematically hunt them. But our leadership doesn’t care! They just
shrug and send new recon drones.”

“Then
observe them from orbit, since they keep destroying your hardware.”

“That’s not
straightforward either. The planet abounds in diverse flora covering most of
the surface. Dense forests hide them from orbital sensors.”

“Alright,
suppose you’ve piqued my interest,” my voice turned icy and professional. “Here
are my terms. First: full tactical authority on the planet is mine. You step
where I say, and if I say ‘run’—you run, no arguments. Second: in addition to
my fee, which will be triple the standard for a ‘yellow zone,’ I get a complete
copy of all data you collect. Not an executive summary, not a report—raw data.
For my… personal archive. Third: if ASIN puts us on their radar, you don’t know
my name, my face, you’ve never seen me. Break any of these—contract void, and I
disappear. I have a long memory for those who let me down.”

Lia looked
at me for several seconds, evaluating. Then she slowly nodded.

“I accept
points one and three. The data…” She paused. “You’ll get a full copy, but with a 72-hour
delay after I submit my official report. I need time to… filter out ASIN’s
proprietary information. And yes,” she pointed a finger at me, “if you try to
sell that data to my competitors or, worse, to the Berserkers—ASIN will find
you faster than you can screw in a new implant. Deal?”

“Deal,” I
said, demonstratively standing up, covertly watching the beast at the entrance
who kept glancing at his watch. “You have one day to prepare. I’ll be waiting
at the port, dock 3 lock.”

Upon
hearing this, the beast didn’t just leave—he spun around and nearly ran,
shoving his hand into an inner pocket. Emergency call, flashed through my mind.

I pulled up
my hood, leaned toward Lia, and hissed so only she could hear:

“You had a
tail. I lied about the location. I’ll wait for you in two days—here.” I
transmitted coordinates via neural interface. “And this time, try to come
without an audience.”

Without
waiting for an answer, I exited the café and melted into
the crowd, changing routes, using counter-surveillance techniques. She plays
the scientist, not understanding the game she’s gotten into. To ASIN, she might
become disposable. Like me. Unless she delivers substantial data from this
mission to justify her existence.

As for me,
I still had to deal with one superfluous witness—the beast who kept glancing at
his watch a little too often.

Ramzes,
Janvary 2026