“I should’ve seen you sooner.”

Zagh, tired but with a faint smirk, replied,

“Yeah, again.”

Jordi held the cigarette toward Zagh. He took it and lit it.

“I came to congratulate you on your promotion.”

Zagh responded sharply,

“Why are you here? Get to the point—I’ve had enough bullshit today.”

With the same cold tone and a hint of mockery, Jordi lifted his drink and spoke as he sipped,

“It’s good that you still don’t need an introduction. I’ll get straight to it. The boss wants you to meet on the Island of Dreams with Sheikh Idris, Sheikh Asadullah Isra, and Sheikh Alalat… regarding arms manufacturing and ammunition.”

Zagh paused briefly, then locked eyes with Jordi seriously:

“What are those three idiots plotting now?”

Jordi, still calm, swirled his drink and said,

“You know that part. I’m just passing on the message as a friend.”

Zagh stared at Jordi for a moment, then sighed, signaled the bartender, and said,

“This one’s on me.”

Without another word, he stood and exited the bar.

Once outside, Zagh walked again through the bustling, cold streets of Moscow. He held his cigarette firmly and took deep drags, observing people as they moved together through life. It was beautiful… the city lights flickered, shops displayed fresh meats. He lifted his head as a snowflake landed on his face. Smiling, he murmured to himself,

“Craving a burger.”

He went into a shop and bought the ingredients for a burger. He also grabbed a bottle of whiskey, then headed to the metro. He rode over three hours through the underground, all the way to the outskirts of the city. Traversing the grim streets of the lower city, he finally arrived at a large, old building. He climbed the crumbling stairs to the third floor and headed toward the left-side lobby. He stopped at unit 56—the third door from the end by the stairs. He pulled out his key and unlocked the door.

Inside the 65-square-meter flat—just one room—he entered. A red Persian rug lay below simple cream-colored furniture and a small wooden kitchenette, creating a serene atmosphere. He flipped on the lights—sunlight flooded the space. Heading to the bedroom area, he changed into gray sweatpants, leaving his upper body bare. He tossed his clothes onto a double bed that held a single mattress, a black blanket, and three pillows. Barefoot, he made his way to the kitchenette. He turned on the stereo and played “One More Hour” by Tame Impala, setting the volume low to medium.

He started cooking. While chopping pickles, he muttered to himself,

“You know, those three idiots definitely have a plan… but honestly, why should I care?”

He paused, set the knife aside, and stared off.

“But the boss is the snake… I’m part of this organization too. If that plan goes ahead and they find I had a hand in it, I’m screwed… Then again, who cares? Not my problem, right?!” He shook his head and went back to chopping pickles—but again, his thoughts wandered.

“The boss didn’t even bother to come himself. He sent his golden boy instead! That pisses me off… But if I prove myself in this operation, maybe I can request not to work with that favorite again.”

His eyes landed on his small Nokia phone. He hesitated for a moment, then shook the thought off. Back to cooking. He pulled the mayo out of the bag, added it to the pickles, seasoned it. Then he took out the burger meat, placed it in the fridge to settle. After that, he headed toward the bathroom.

Under the shower, his thoughts kept spinning. Over and over, he argued with himself: “Should I go or not?” He got so lost in thought he didn’t even realize an hour had passed.

When he came out of the shower, he returned to the kitchen. Took the burger from the fridge, tossed it into the pan to fry. Got the bread and toppings ready. Poured himself a glass of whiskey. Once the patty was done, he put it in the bun. Sat behind the kitchen island and began eating.

But even while eating, his mind wouldn’t stop racing. He changed the song—put on “Dealer” by Lana Del Rey. As the soft track played, he kept chewing slowly, then started muttering to himself again:

“You know… it might be smart if I go. Might be risky—but it pays off.”

“Maybe I’ll even get on the boss’s good side.”

“And hell, I’d love to mess with those three idiots again!”

He raised the whiskey glass, downed it in one go, then slammed it onto the counter:

“Goddammit! Should I go or not?!”

He stood up, ran his hands through his hair, and screamed:

“OHHH GOOOOOOOD! WHAT DO I DOOO?!”