Joseph paused, head tilted to one side. A nervous tic of the eyelid revealed the excitement concealed by the rest of his body. “How many men do you have available?”

“You’re supplying the men. I only have one associate.”

Joseph returned to his glass, emptied it in a single dry gulp. “Fine. But get ready to crawl out of your hole. This time you’re coming in person.”

Malakian clenched a jaw that was no longer entirely organic. “Last time I went out, I lost two eyes.”

“And gained six in return.” Joseph smiled. “Or are you scared of hitting double digits?”

Malakian’s eyelids blinked in a chaotic pattern, and for a moment he seemed almost human in his irritation. “You’d love to see me covered in eyeballs, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d love that number of tickets.” The corporate ignored the wardrobe as it opened.

“Four hours before they reach the point of no return.”

“We need Beta for this operation.” His finger slid through the air, tracing invisible patterns and selecting clothes maintaining his focus on the hologram.

The suit emerged from the wall: dark fiber treated with kevlar, impeccable cut that hid functionality beneath appearance. Polished shoes completed the ensemble — glossy, sharp, silent.

“I assume you know him.” A statement, not a question. “Talks too much, but knows how to move in the shadows.”

Malakian narrowed his eyelids, visibly puzzled. “The slum guy? The one with the cyber-tongue? He’s not... stable.”

“None of us are.” Joseph arched an eyebrow, a minimal gesture that contained volumes of meaning. “But he knows the streets better than anyone. We need him.”

“You sure?”

“He owes me a favor. A big one.”

The call ended. No goodbyes, no pleasantries. The corporate visualized the neural interface, a private galaxy of icons that only he could explore. He filtered, sorted, discarded — precise mental commands.

Beta appeared, not a name but a composite portrait of information: debts, favors, abilities, risks. A touch of thought established contact.

The man smiled through the connection. “Joe! Thought you’d forgotten about me!”

Every muscle in Joseph’s face tightened, a micro-spasm imperceptible to anyone except Beta.

“For you, it’s Mr. Wampler.” Controlled voice, modulated to convey authority and entirely devoid of irritation.

Beta widened his smile, his tongue flicking visibly between his teeth. “Right, right. Always so formal! How long have we been dancing together? Three years?”

“We’ve collaborated for thirty-seven months. We’re not friends.”

A theatrical sigh from the other side of the connection. Beta lowered his shoulders in a studied gesture of surrender. “All right, all right. *Mister* Wampler.” The emphasis was a micro-rebellion. “How may I be of service, *Sir*? Couldn’t you send me a text like all the other corporates?”

Joseph studied the man, calculating how much to reveal. “Military-grade convoy. Five armored vehicles.” The words fell like counted coins. “Non-standard route. Cargo of incalculable value.”

Beta stopped smiling. The change in attitude was total and immediate. “When?”

“Three hours, forty-seven minutes.” Joseph stifled the surge of emotion: hurry, greed, excitement. “The operational window is twelve minutes. No margin for error.”

“Payment?”

“More than you could spend.”

Beta tilted his head, evaluating. The calculation was visible in the way his eyes moved, erratic. “All right, I’m in. But I want to know everything.” His gaze sharpened. “*Everything*. No secrets, no dark corners. If I die, I want to know why.”

Joseph let exactly three seconds pass — no indecision, no hesitation, but a calculated pause to convey seriousness. “Fine. But only in person. Sunlight. One hour.”

“Bring a diver as advance payment.” Beta smiled again, but it was a different smile, professional. “Not a moron like the last one.”

Joseph nodded just once, an invisible signature worth more than any contract. The connection broke, leaving only silence to seal the deal.

He turned towards the window, disgusted by the insistent advertisements. For a moment, almost imperceptible, an emotion passed through him: it wasn’t greed, it wasn’t excitement.

It was hunger.

He remained indifferent when Malakian’s avatar invaded his field of vision.

“I’m almost at your place. I brought the friend I told you about.”

“Good. But you vouch for him. My driver will arrive shortly.”

His thumb caressed his wrist and the smart-ink changed shape: time had run out.

Joseph thought of Alonso’s name and his image materialized, biometric data scrolling beside the round face.

The driver jumped. A shiver ran through him, shaking the prominent belly that pressed against the steering wheel.

“I need you.” Joseph’s tone was calm, but the meaning was sharp as a blade.

The driver glanced at the woman in the passenger seat, the blush still vivid on her cheeks.

“A job? Now?” He asked, uncertain. “I’m...”

“I don’t care what you’re doing.” No inflection, just facts. “This is priority.”

A curse under his breath. Sweat on Alonso’s forehead glistened in the dim light of the cabin.

“You see... I’m in an... important negotiation.” The words came out uncertain, one last attempt. “I can’t...”

Joseph knew very well what kind of ‘negotiations’ occupied his driver.

“Listen to me.” A command, not a request. “Ten minutes, or you’re out.”

“Alright, boss.” His voice reduced to a whisper.

“Not *all right*. Now! Stop wasting my time.”

The hologram disappeared in a cascade of defective pixels.

A mental impulse, and Malakian was back in his field of vision.

“The driver’s coming.” The corporate lowered his gaze to the derma-watch function and activated the timer. “I’m heading out.”

Joseph Wampler left the AndrusDynamics-branded building with measured, almost military steps.

A constant hum of underground machinery pulsed through the cracked concrete, blended in the metallic wail of magnetic trains traversing the city.

In a distracted gesture, he adjusted his jacket cuff. The golden dress studs shone in the artificial light, showing his name’s initials. Beneath the suit, the Spar-K handgun rested in its holster, invisible to most but just as much a part of his being as the silk tie.

The cold wind stung his cheeks, but failed to crack his composure.

He headed toward the white sedan. The corporation logo, a gleaming stylized ‘A’, unfurled across the hood like an infection. The driver was at the wheel, his massive body leaning forward, peering out the window.

Joseph lowered his sight to the derma-watch. A quick impulse and the timer stopped. Eleven minutes and forty-two seconds. He had granted ten.

“Sir.” Alonso trembled slightly. “I apologize for the inconvenience earlier. It won’t happen again.”

A glance at his wrist, then at Alonso. The corporate was unreadable. “One minute and forty-two seconds late. I’ll turn a blind eye this time. Do well tonight, and you’ll see something extra in your account.”

Hope painted itself across the driver’s face. “Thank you, boss. I won’t disappoint you.”

Alonso’s stained jacket said more about the social gap between them than any words ever could.

Two figures emerged from the alley. The metallic clang of Malakian’s steps echoed on the asphalt. His white coat hung open over a bare chest, exposing six cybernetic weapons where his arms once were.

“This is Albert Skuler,” his voice scratched the silence. “and this is Joseph Wampler, from Andrus.”

The two allowed themselves a moment of mutual assessment.

The hooded figure said nothing. A gas mask concealed his appearance, revealing only two yellow slits. The military tactical suit and sniper rifle spoke for him.

Joseph stiffened slightly; his right hand slipped into his pocket, not a casual gesture. The other remained motionless, the slits aimed at him, as if they were crosshairs.

Neither made the slightest movement toward the other.

The hitman wouldn’t stoop to touch a man in a suit. The corporate wouldn’t sully his skin with that of a killer.

In the car, Alonso held his breath.

“What, too shy for a handshake?” Malakian’s grin revealed teeth too white and regular. “Let me introduce my two best friends who already hate each other!”

No one took the bait.

They headed toward the vehicle, without uttering a sound.

The driver got out with surprising speed for his bulk, and opened the doors. “Please, don’t sit on the stain in the center...” he warned as the techno-medic was about to settle down. “...it’s not fruit juice.”

“I’ll shoot him Joseph, I swear... capisce?” Malakian’s tone had a shade of irony that didn’t erase the threat hidden within it.

“We’ll pick up Elwin. Beta needs a diver.” Joseph’s tone was icy.

Albert slid in his seat. Not even a breath escaped the mask, as if nothing human hid behind it.

The car moved into the night, swallowed by shadows. The hunt for the convoy had begun.