The ultraviolet glow of the hidden numbers, stark against the dark paper of Orlov's letter, cast an eerie pall over the obsidian table. The room, a bastion of clandestine power, fell into a heavy silence. Petrovitch, his usually impassive face etched with a rare perplexity, stared at the glowing digits as if they were a riddle he couldn't decipher. Bianchi and Conti, ever the pragmatists, merely shrugged, their eyes betraying a mixture of indifference and mild curiosity. Morales, the elder statesman of the Consortium, observed the unfolding scene with his characteristic calm, his aged eyes betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

Elena Volkov, her usually composed demeanor replaced by genuine concern, leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the glowing sequence. 'A phone number? Why would Orlov provide us with a way to contact him?' The question hung in the air, a silent echo of their collective unease.

Conti, his gaze still fixed on the numbers, offered a sardonic explanation. 'Maybe he's advertising. I mean, why else would he want to reveal he's behind the accident? A bold move, even for him.'

Bianchi slammed a hand against the polished obsidian, the resounding crack cutting through the tension. 'Are you kidding me, Conti? Advertising? This isn't some commercial. An assassin doesn't do that. Especially one who seems to be pretty damn good.' His voice dripped with annoyance.

Conti scratched his head, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

'This just proves my theory, he's a rookie. I mean, wouldn't it sound nice to have us giving him contracts? And if he's an expert, why didn't we know him yet? We're at the summit of the underworld.'

Bianchi scowled, his gaze a silent threat. Petrovitch, however, intervened before Bianchi could unleash his usual vitriol. 'Conti makes a valid point. The fact that we've never heard of this Orlov before... It doesn't make sense. He must be somewhat new to the business.'

Elena leaned forward, her voice laced with a subtle tremor. 'But if he's a newcomer, how did he manage to pull off something as high-profile as this plane crash? It's like he's flaunting his skills, challenging us.'

Bianchi smirked, his usual air of contempt returning. 'Let him flaunt. He's a nobody. We've been in this game long enough. He's just stirring the pot, trying to make a name for himself.'

Morales, his voice a low, steady rumble, cut through Bianchi's dismissive tone. 'Maybe so, Bianchi. But it's not just about the audacity. It's also about the skills. He managed to eliminate the Fed's head without leaving any leads. That takes more than just bravery, it takes skill.'

Saiyel, his voice laced with an air of authority, finally broke the rising tension. 'Are you all quite finished? We still need to decide whether to call him.'

Conti sneered, his arrogance resurfacing like a venomous serpent. 'He clearly wants us to call him. Why do we have to give him what he wants?'

Elena Volkov, her eyes like chips of glacial ice, fixed Conti with a cold stare. 'It's not about what he wants, Conti. It's about what we need. We can't underestimate him, and we can't ignore the fact that there's a new player in town, one who has already demonstrated a disturbing level of proficiency.'

Bianchi, leaning back in his opulent chair as if the threat was no more than a passing annoyance, drawled, 'Fine. Let's call him. See what the newbie has to say.'

Morales, his aged eyes reflecting the muted light of the chamber, nodded silently, a subtle gesture of agreement. Petrovitch, his face a mask of stern calculation, chimed in. 'Right. We give him a call, but we don't show any weakness. We control the conversation. Establish dominance.'

'Marcus,' Saiyel commanded, his voice a low, resonant tone that brooked no argument. 'Contact Orlov. Do it over the speakerphone.'

Marcus, his movements precise and efficient, dialed the number on the letter. The room fell into a tense, expectant silence, the air thick with unspoken questions and simmering unease. After a moment, the sharp click of a connection echoed through the chamber, followed by a voice that seemed to slither from the speaker.

'Good evening, Syndicate.'

Conti's keen ear, honed by years of navigating the underworld's subtle nuances, picked up the subtle acoustic cues. Orlov's voice had a slight, metallic ring, as if amplified, and was subtly echoed by the surrounding area. And, as Conti suspected, there was a clear, unmistakable sound of smacking, like someone leisurely enjoying an ice pop.

Saiyel, attempting to mask his surprise at the incongruous background noise, spoke with a neutral, measured tone. 'Orlov, I trust you know why we're calling.'

'Yes, I know very well.'

Cillian Russo, unable to suppress his characteristic impulsiveness, blurted out, 'Are you eating an ice pop right now?'

'Bingo. An orange-flavored popsicle, a classic delicacy.'

Conti chuckled snidely, his eyes gleaming with disbelief. 'And you're just casually eating it during a call with us?'

'You called when I was eating.'

Conti couldn't help but chuckle at Orlov's nonchalant response. 'Yeah, and apparently you didn't want to delay your little snack break.'

Petrovitch, his patience wearing thin, intervened, his voice edged with steel. 'Enough with the chit-chat. Orlov, you know we're not here to listen to you enjoy your ice pop.'

'Yeah, you were calling to check if the number even worked in the first place.'

Saiyel's cheeks heated involuntarily, a rare flush of irritation. The fact that Orlov had so accurately anticipated their motives was unsettling. Meanwhile, Conti, thoroughly entertained, snickered softly.

Conti, still reveling in Orlov's audacity, decided to push further. 'So, Orlov, you seem to know a lot about us. But we don't know anything about you.'

'Yes, and?'

Petrovitch's patience began to fray, his voice hardening. 'We don't like to deal in the dark, Orlov. You're in our territory now, and we need to know who we're dealing with.'

'You're dealing with a contract killer.'

Conti, his signature smirk in place, quipped, 'Oh, we got a comedian here.'

Bianchi, his skepticism evident, added, his tone laced with sarcasm, 'Yeah, a contract killer who eats ice pops between hits.'

Morales' voice, a low, steady rumble, cut through the banter with a hint of authority. 'Enough. Orlov, we need to know your credentials and previous work.'

'Previous work?'

 Morales's brow furrowed, his voice laced with a thinly veiled annoyance. 'You claim to be a contract killer, yet offer no evidence. We require details, Orlov. Details of your past endeavors.'

'Sorry, no previous works yet.'

Conti's lips curled into a skeptical sneer. 'No previous works? And yet you claim responsibility for Flight 214? The authorities deemed it an accident. You can't simply claim it as your handiwork without proof.'

Elena Volkov's gaze, sharp and unwavering, cut through the tension. 'Indeed. If you truly orchestrated Flight 214, as you assert, then you should have no qualms in revealing the method. Dare to explain, Orlov. Provide us with the details.'

Morales, maintaining his composure, addressed Orlov, his voice laced with a subtle challenge. 'You assert responsibility for Flight 214, yet claim no previous experience. If you truly orchestrated this event, explain the method. Prove your claim.'

Orlov's voice, devoid of emotion, took on a chillingly clinical tone

. 'I designed it to perfection. A small HCl device, strategically placed near the engine's fan. The acid seeps in, corroding the seals. Lubricants leak, mixing with the acid... and then, chaos. The fan's catastrophic failure unleashes a blast, shredding metal and silencing everyone on board.'

'Beautiful, isn't it? The simplicity. The elegance. They'll attribute it to mechanical failure, never suspecting a mastermind at work.'

 A hint of dark amusement laced his tone.

'My signature, hidden in plain sight. The investigators will be baffled, and I'll remain invisible, pulling the strings.'

'You see, I've studied the intricacies of destruction. I know exactly where to apply pressure, how to manipulate the odds. And with that knowledge, I hold the power.'

The room fell into a heavy, contemplative silence, the air thick with a mixture of awe and uneasy uncertainty. Even Conti, whose tongue was usually a sharpened blade, found himself momentarily speechless, the weight of Orlov's words settling upon him like a shroud.

Morales, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the lingering silence, spoke with a hint of reluctant admiration. 'Impressive. Deadly, but undeniably impressive.'

Petrovitch, ever the pragmatist, focused on the stark implications of Orlov's chillingly efficient method. 'What you've done requires more than mere technical knowledge. The fact that you managed to execute such a complex operation without leaving a trace makes you a valuable asset. But it also makes you a significant threat.'

Bianchi, never one to mince words, voiced his skepticism with characteristic bluntness. 'But how can we trust you? What's to stop you from turning on us, from using those same skills against us?'

'I never asked anyone to trust me,' Orlov's voice echoed from the speaker, devoid of any attempt at reassurance.

Conti, recovering his sardonic wit, chimed in, his voice laced with thinly veiled sarcasm. 'Oh, great. A contract killer without a moral compass. What a surprise.'

'Oh please,' Orlov retorted, his voice laced with a hint of dark amusement. 'At least I don't give off snarky comments while having a torture chamber in my room because it's "cool".'

Conti, caught off guard by the pointed jab, flushed crimson, a rare and unsettling sight for the usually arrogant member of the Consortium. 'How the hell—'

Morales gave a knowing smirk, while Bianchi chuckled softly, enjoying Conti's rare moment of discomfiture.

Petrovitch, his gaze hardening, cut through the rising tension. 'Enough. This isn't about Conti's... predilections.'

Elena Volkov, her voice sharp and decisive, attempted to steer the conversation back on course. 'Petrovitch is right. We need to decide what to do with this new player.'

'Surely,' Orlov's voice echoed, cold and unyielding. 'Because I don't doubt the next call I'll get might as well be someone wanting one of you down. And trust me when I say, I'm only loyal to my paycheck.'

Conti, still stinging from the earlier embarrassment, tried to regain his composure, his voice laced with a defensive edge. 'Yeah, well, we got our own ways of handling things. We don't need some newbie to do our dirty work.'

'Surely,' Orlov's voice echoed, smooth and unyielding. 'The letter was just a reminder. A gentle nudge, if you will. A premonition, perhaps. Consider it a courtesy. Don't be offended later, when you realize the true scope of my… services. Or when you find yourselves wishing you'd taken my presence more seriously. When the contracts start coming in, you might find your old methods… inadequate. Antiquated. And when those contracts are against one of you, well, let's just say you might find yourselves wishing you had been less dismissive. Don't be offended when you realize you were wrong.'

Elena, casting a warning glance at Conti, attempted to restore order. 'Enough. We're not here to exchange insults. We're here to decide what to do about Orlov.'

'With me still on the line? Wouldn't you want me to hang up?'

Conti, quick with a sardonic retort, quipped, 'Oh, you're giving us permission to hang up? How very… gentlemanly.'

Petrovitch, his patience wearing thin, intervened before the conversation devolved into another pointless squabble. 'Enough, Conti. We're not here to discuss phone etiquette.'

Morales, his voice low and steady, tried to refocus the group. 'He's right. We need to decide what to do with Orlov.'

A tense silence filled the room, the weight of Orlov's words hanging heavy in the air. Saiyel, his jaw tight, gave a curt nod to Marcus. Marcus, with a swift, decisive movement, ended the call. The line went dead, leaving a hollow echo in the chamber.

Bianchi, a sardonic glint in his eyes, broke the tense silence. 'What's there to decide? Hire him or kill him. Pretty basic choice, no?'

Conti, ever eager to inject his brand of caustic wit into the proceedings, couldn't resist chiming in. 'Not to mention he just admitted he'd take the highest bidder. We'd be fools to trust him. He’d sell us out for a handful of credits.'

Saiyel, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet during the preceding banter, finally spoke, his voice firm and laced with a palpable irritation. 'We need to approach this with a degree of… prudence. Orlov is undeniably a valuable asset, his skills are undeniable. However, he is also a dangerous liability. We must carefully weigh the risks against the potential benefits.'

Bianchi huffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. 'Great, more agonizing decision-making. Can't we just flip a coin and be done with it?'

Conti, his lips curling into a mischievous grin, produced a gleaming coin from his pocket and tossed it to Bianchi. 

Bianchi caught it with a flourish, holding it aloft. 'Heads we hire, tails we kill. Fair enough?'

Morales, his face etched with frustration, let out a weary sigh. 'Enough. This is a serious matter. We cannot make such a critical decision based on a coin flip.'

Conti, undeterred, quipped, 'Relax, Morales. We're merely invoking ancient Mafia wisdom. A time-honored tradition.'

Petrovitch, his gaze hardening, gave Conti a stern, silencing glare. 'This is no time for levity. The decision we make here could have far-reaching consequences for all of us.'

Bianchi, ignoring Petrovitch's admonition, flipped the coin. The polished disc spun in the air, its glinting surface casting fleeting shadows across the obsidian table. After a moment of suspenseful silence, it landed with a sharp, decisive smack in Bianchi's outstretched hand.

 'And the verdict is…' He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes scanning the faces of his colleagues. The coin landed with the heads side facing up. 'Heads it is,' Bianchi announced, a smug grin spreading across his face.

Saiyel's gaze narrowed, his eyes dark with suspicion. 'I don't trust him. His words, his nonchalance in eating a popsicle during such a critical conversation, all hint at a… psychopathic disposition.'

Russo, ever the skeptic, voiced his agreement. 'I'm with Saiyel on this one. The man just admitted he'd work for anyone who pays him. Not exactly a solid foundation for trust.'

Bianchi, seemingly unfazed by the others' concerns, shrugged dismissively. 'Eh, I say we give him a chance. Worst-case scenario, we eliminate him if he steps out of line.'

Elena, always the voice of reason, attempted to inject a dose of pragmatism into the discussion. 'We cannot simply eliminate him that easily. He is a highly skilled killer. Who's to say he won't take us down first?'

Saiyel, his voice firm and decisive, spoke again. 'We will arrange for the best hitman in the game. No way he will defeat him.'