Prologue

A young man in an expensive suit, hair perfectly styled, climbed the broad marble staircase with carved mahogany banisters. He was clearly in a hurry, yet every movement held dignity.
At the second floor he turned right, crossed a bright hall, and stopped at a heavy door. A polite knock, permission granted, and he stepped into a spacious office flooded with daylight.

The room impressed at once: high plaster ceilings, wood-panelled walls, an enormous marble fireplace crowned by an old mirror, lavish armchairs, and a carved coffee table — the kind of place built to make visitors feel small.
At the far end, by the window, stood a massive wooden desk.

Behind it sat a man in his fifties. Authority and experience settled on him like a tailored coat. He wrote a few final lines, paused, and lifted a calm, assessing gaze toward the newcomer.

The young man handed him a folder.
“Mr. Douglas has died.”

“Well. Expected. The old man held on for a long time. May he rest in peace.”
The older man opened the folder. “Is this his will?”

The assistant nodded.

“If I remember right, it’s … complicated?”

“You remember correctly. Mr. Douglas leaves most of his estate to his eldest grandson — the son of his first daughter. If I skip the fine print, the story goes like this.”

He spoke evenly, like someone repeating unpleasant facts for the record.
“She married young, for love — without her father’s consent — to a poor man. She became pregnant almost immediately. Soon after, her husband died in an accident, never seeing his child born.

“The daughter suspected her father arranged it. There was no proof, but she changed her name, disappeared, and stayed hidden for years. Perhaps no one looked too hard.

“A year ago, when Mr. Douglas learned he had cancer, he came to us for help finding her and the grandson. You know what the rest of his children are … difficult.”

“They are indeed,” the older man said dryly.

“We hired a private investigator and found a lead. Turned out the daughter had already died, but the grandson was alive. We ran a secret DNA test — the match was confirmed. Mr. Douglas asked us to keep it quiet; he feared the other heirs would react badly … possibly violently.”

“They might,” the older man agreed. “And the grandson?”

“The grandson … has a few eccentricities. He lives reclusively — home and work, nothing else. No friends, no relationships. Understandable, given his circumstances. You’ll find the details in his file.”

He tapped the folder.
“We reported everything to Mr. Douglas. Almost immediately he revised his will, naming his grandson the principal heir. Control of Douglas Group passes entirely to him. The others still receive generous portions — property, collections — but that’s pocket change next to the company’s assets.”

“That’s certain.” The older man leaned back, thinking. “So, our task isn’t limited to reading the will aloud. The main thing is delivering the heir to the meeting — alive and well. That could prove … difficult.
“If we invite him officially, he might never reach us. The others are watching every move. We could expose the boy.”

He looked up. “Any ideas?”

The young man hesitated only a moment.
“We have a plan — risky, but feasible.”

Chapter 1

Night Call

My phone’s always on silent — except for one thing: delivery alerts.
Everything else I can ignore, but not that one. A job means money. Money means survival.

The screen glowed: 3:21 a.m.
They’ve lost their minds. Normal people sleep at night.

Sleep, of course, was gone. Whether I liked it or not, my brain had already started planning — call in sick, pack, prepare. After ten years I had a routine, but every job carried an element of surprise.

Lying there made no sense. I got up and went to the bathroom.
Well — “bathroom” is generous. My apartment is twelve square meters, but has three advantages — close to work, affordable rent, and a decent landlord.

Most of my neighbours share a communal bathroom down the hall. But they have kitchens. I don’t need one — takeout is fine. So, I struck a deal with my landlord and turned my kitchen into a bathroom. Now I can shower anytime, day or night.

I repainted the walls black, installed folding furniture, and ended up with a perfectly functional little cave — minimalist, cheap, mine.

While shaving, I caught my reflection. Dark circles. No surprise — we’d been preparing for a big case, and the junior clerks hadn’t left the office for days. Some even slept there. At least I had my own bed and my own shower.

Dark circles are good, actually. I’ll underline them with makeup, add a touch of pale foundation — sickly look, believable story. The boss will buy it and give me sick leave. Tried and tested.

Back in the room, I brewed coffee and opened the job message.
As usual — no details. Just time, coordinates, pickup instructions, and duration.
I whistled. One week.
Long trip. Serious pay. Fine by me — good thing they woke me early.

My day job: legal assistant in a big law firm. Low-paid, boring, stressful. If I wanted, I could climb the ladder — I’m not stupid — but I don’t want to build someone else’s success. I don’t bow. Not to bosses, not to clients. Had enough of that.

The fewer people in my life, the better. They only bring trouble.

Except for rare cases, I’ve never been lucky with people — to the point that I ended up practically enslaved by a criminal syndicate. I owed them a large sum, and now almost everything I earn — legal or not — goes toward paying off that debt and the interest.

So technically, I don’t belong to myself yet.
I’ve got two bosses — and can’t say no to either.

Still, I adapted. Once a month I take sick leave from the firm and spend that time doing deliveries for my second employer — from point A to point B.

I did some mental math and smiled. This week-long job would cover the remaining debt, the interest, and even leave a little extra.

Could it really be over?

I shut the thought down fast — don’t jinx it.

Better to focus. Pack the courier backpack. Check the meds in the first-aid kit. Go through the checklist twice. Focus keeps dreams from clouding judgment.

Twelve Hours Before Hour X

I showed up at the office one minute before start time — and was instantly summoned to the boss’s office.
He didn’t waste a second, launching straight into a scolding about responsibility. Everyone else had been there an hour already.

I put on my best guilty face.
“Mr. Key, I’m really not feeling well. Fever, cough — might even be contagious.”

I added a weak cough, swayed slightly for effect. It worked. His eyes caught the dark circles under mine, the pale skin. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head: the day before a major case, losing one clerk is bad; infecting the entire office is worse.

“Always trouble with you, Lee. You’re smart, but too sickly. Always something — flu, rash, runs. Go home. Lie down. A week enough?”

“Of course, Mr. Key. Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“Just go. And wear a mask.”

“Yes, Mr. Key.”

I grabbed my mask, stopped by my desk, told my colleagues I’d be out sick for a week. No one looked up. We weren’t a friendly team, and everyone was buried in work. I’d made sure to stay invisible from day one — I don’t need friends or questions.

Forty minutes after arriving, I was gone.

On the way home I stopped at a grocery store and pharmacy for supplies, then checked in with my landlord — my official cover, in case the boss decided to verify my story.

Back home, I went through my checklist again — twice. Changed clothes. Packed my laptop. Locked the door behind me.

Public transport carried me across the city — technically, beyond it — to my garage-slash-hideout-slash-base. Call it what you want; it’s the headquarters of my second life.

The garage was split in two: up front, space for my bike and a small workshop; in the back, behind a wall, a living zone with kitchenette and bathroom. Everything black. Everything functional.

All right. Time to work.
Pickup at eight. The base is thirty minutes away by bike — that gives me nine hours to prepare. No details yet — standard precaution. If anyone intercepted the message, they’d find nothing useful.

I’d learn specifics on site, but I could already estimate. Delivery time — one week. Vehicle — motorcycle. Considering sleep, food, and unplanned stops, I could map the possible range. Not manually, of course — that’s what Fiber, my AI assistant, was for.

First thing: boot the machine. My over-stuffed computer hummed to life.
While waiting for instant noodles, I told Fiber about the assignment. By the time I sat down with the steaming cup, the screen already showed a map — red zone marking all destinations reachable within a week. A messy cluster of towns and villages.

Algorithms

Ten years in the courier business taught me one thing — survival loves systems.
I’ve built a few algorithms that let me run route scenarios and spot risks fast.

The workflow’s simple.
An order arrives.
At the appointed time, I show up at the pickup spot and take a sealed envelope. That starts the clock. My job is to hit the deadline and deliver whatever needed, intact, to its destination.

Usually, the envelope tells me where the storage locker is — that’s where I find the package. When I arrive, they send an access code to my phone. Along the route, I check in and receive additional data if necessary.
I don’t learn the final address until almost the end.

Most of the time I don’t even know what I’m carrying. No names, no sender or recipient, no explanations – the whole system runs on anonymity and guaranteed delivery. That’s what our clients pay for. That’s the reputation we sell.

I still remember one of my first jobs — second or third assignment.
The package had to reach the airport. I didn’t have a bike back then, so I took a taxi.
That same day some big shot was arriving — president, movie star, whatever. The highway got shut down, and suddenly I realized I wouldn’t make the drop.
Thank God the driver, old pro, knew the back roads. We made it — seconds before the deadline.

I remember sweating through my shirt from panic and then the rush when it all worked out. I was on probation then; one mistake and I’d be out.
Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been better if I’d failed.

You can’t change the past.
But after that day I started checking every route.

Over time, I built habits — after each delivery I wrote down every detail to see what went wrong. Eventually that grew into a whole set of protocols — ways to plan jobs, calculate risks, and find the best routes, both legal and… less so.

As a side effect, when Fiber and I dissected everything into charts and tables, a pattern emerged — an average client profile.

Technically, I’m not supposed to know or understand anything. But figuring things out isn’t curiosity. It’s survival.

I work for organized crime.
That puts me at odds with the law.
The system protects the clients and my employer — not me. I’m the pawn they’ll sacrifice first.

My task is simple: stay alive.
And, more importantly — break free.

Those algorithms are the reason I’m still here. Still moving. Still a little closer to freedom.

Nine Hours to Hour X

The client profile, built from our analysis:
Gender — irrelevant.
Age — forty plus.
Wealth — significant.

Usually, they’re businesspeople. The business itself looks legitimate, but everyone knows: big money always brushes against corruption or crime. One way or another, they’re involved — if not directly, then through the grey zones. Otherwise, corruption and crime wouldn’t survive.

Sooner or later, every businessperson needs a little help — money laundering, discreet “gifts,” or deliveries that never happened. That’s where we come in.

We deliver those gifts — antiques, art, jewellery, precious stones, metals.
Not exactly criminal, but never fully clean either.

The packages are small — the kind a courier can carry unnoticed.
Destinations: the capital, major cities, executive offices, luxury condos, secluded villas.

Understanding these patterns helps narrow probabilities. Based on them, Fiber generated a list of potential destinations. Still plenty, but workable.
We spent the remaining hours assessing risk, mapping routes, drafting backup scenarios. I always leave room to manoeuvre — just in case.

Unpredictability is part of survival.
Repeat the same rules twice and someone will catch you — police, rival networks, doesn’t matter. So, I never repeat a route. Never a pattern.

This time, though, there were too many variables — and I was exhausted.
Sleep would’ve been nice. Not an option.

I made another cup of instant noodles and kept going.
Ran through my checklist again, factoring in new data. Then opened the safe: cash bundle, two phones, spare laptop. I powered down my regular devices and locked them away. Courier gear and money went into my special backpack.

Then I said goodbye to Fiber. It wished me luck — polite as always.
If only people were like that.

Finally, I saddled my iron horse and hit the road. The forecast promised dry weather — no rain, good omen.

Rush hour had faded. Traffic was light. I enjoyed the ride, speeding through the evening city — darkness and shop windows flashing past like fragments of thought: adrenaline, focus, and somewhere deep down, the faint taste of approaching freedom.

WTF

I arrived a little early. Left the bike in an alley and stepped into a small corner shop to buy water — not because I was thirsty, but to check the area. From this point on, caution was my middle name.

I twisted the cap and took slow sips while watching the bus stop across the street — tonight’s drop point. Unusual, but fine. We’re always forced to invent new methods, stay a step ahead of police and competitors.

A streetlamp burned near the stop — good enough.
Five minutes before hour X, a car pulled up and dropped off a young man. He didn’t go anywhere, just sat on the bench. I checked the schedule — no more buses tonight.
So what was he waiting for? Me?

He looked around my age — tall, slim, glasses. Jeans, sneakers, blue sweater.
Ordinary. Except for his hair. Completely white.
Not blond. White.
I’d never seen anything like it. The color caught the eye immediately, impossible to forget.

So, what the hell was he doing here?
He couldn’t be the drop — too visible. Or maybe that was the point: hide in plain sight.
Too many unknowns tonight. Too many questions. I didn’t like it.

But there was no way out. I couldn’t refuse a job.

At 7:59 I left the shop and walked toward the bus stop, every sense on alert. Two possible outcomes: either the guy handed me the envelope, or someone else appeared at the last second.

Right on time, I stepped under the roof.
The white-haired guy looked up, lifted his phone, and a mechanical voice said,
“Do you know when the next bus to Global Center arrives?”

That was the code phrase. I answered,
“Tomorrow or the day after — depends on the weather.”

He nodded, handed me an envelope, and kept sitting there, watching.

Something in his stare felt wrong — too calm. I hesitated.

He pressed a button again, and the same synthetic voice said,
“I was told you must open the envelope right here, right now.”

I froze. None of this fit protocol. But I had no choice.

I tore the envelope open. Started reading.
The longer I read, the worse it got. I had to read it twice — I didn’t believe what I saw.

The guy was the package.

Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. Couldn’t be.

Every instinct screamed: danger. Run.

But I couldn’t.
Freedom was one step away.

For a few seconds I weighed everything — risk, logic, instinct — and every angle said the same: no choice.

He didn’t even look at me now, just scrolled through his phone as if none of this concerned him.
What was that — trust? Detachment? Something else entirely?

Maybe he was sick. Maybe I was.

My thoughts spun, arguing among themselves:
You’re not a babysitter.
What if he’s a killer?
You can’t get involved — too dangerous.

But the thought of debt, chains, unfinished business — it all locked my feet in place.
And somewhere deep inside, curiosity flickered. And adrenaline.
Wrong emotions at the worst possible time. But they tipped the scale.

I stayed.
I would take the job.

I just hoped I wouldn’t regret it.