The Mercury corporate building stands out among the rest of the city’s architecture like an ultramodern palace made of light and steel—a vision of the future in a world that long ago forgot what humanity means. From the conference hall, shedding formalities, two men emerge: the chairman of the corporation, Vikar, and his old friend—Ivor.

  They walk down a deserted corridor, their footsteps echoing off smooth walls, sounding like the whisper of the corporation itself, as if the building is alive and watching their every move. In the reception area, they are met by the secretary—flawless, like everything here, with a cold yet calm smile. She nods silently and, without a word, leads them to the massive doors, which open with a single fluid motion of her hand.

  Vikar and Ivor enter a spacious hall. The floor beneath their feet is smooth, almost mirror-like, reflecting not just walls and ceiling but their very thoughts, as if the space draws out every unnecessary fragment of the mind. Directly ahead, on a raised platform, stands a statue of Zeus—mighty, holding a lightning bolt, shimmering with black glass that reflects light, creating the illusion the deity might spring to life. Zeus is a symbol of power, strength, and corporate branding—not so much a god as a logo, but no less dangerous.

  At the center of the room sits an oval table, surrounded by chairs that don’t rest on the ground. They seem to levitate, swaying gently, as if inviting someone to take a seat. Vikar pauses at the table, his gaze drifting thoughtfully through the space, then suddenly declares:

  "This is your reception hall now, Ivor."

  Ivor raises an eyebrow in surprise, but Vikar continues without waiting for questions:

  "You’ll meet many people here... dangerous people. But here you’re safe. This place is a fortified cocoon. Its defense system is unique. Only our profiles function within it. No bullet, no threat can breach these walls. What do you think?"

  Vikar stops, observing Ivor’s reaction, his eyes gleaming with cold certainty. Ivor, a little surprised but already beginning to adapt to the new reality, scans the empty space.

  "Defense level of a fortress," he says, trying to hide a slight smirk. "You’re serious, Vikar? I can’t believe this place... actually works."

  "Pass the trial and you’ll believe," Vikar replies, smiling faintly. "But you remember the rules: trust here is the most valuable thing. You’ll find those who’ll work for you... or against you."

  Ivor nods, understanding that for Vikar, these aren’t just words—they’re a creed. Silence fills the hall, not oppressive but rather offering the chance to realize: everything that happens within these walls comes with a price.

  He slowly scans the room, as if trying to grasp the scale of what’s happening.

  "I have to admit, I didn’t expect this," he finally says. "It’s... a generous gift, Vikar."

  "More practical than generous," Vikar counters with a slight smile. "You risked a lot delivering contraband. Raid after raid. All for our dream. For android freedom. I appreciate that. Let this be my acknowledgment."

  He raises a hand slightly, gesturing toward a chair.

  "Take a seat. Learn your office. This is your domain now."

  Ivor moves lightly, the chair catches his body, conforming to his form as if alive, whispering comfort silently. Everything here breathes—not technology, but something more. Here, power is felt—cold, confident, quiet, unshakable.

  He runs his hand over the cold surface of the table.

  "Wait," Ivor says suddenly, not looking at Vikar. "You keep talking about value, about risk, about our dream. But you never said what exactly was in those containers. The last shipment is delivered. I think it’s time to speak plainly."

  He raises his gaze, his eyes hard as obsidian.

  "Talk. Or I won’t let you leave."

  Vikar freezes for a moment, evaluating. Then lets out a short, tense laugh.

  "You’ve become formidable, my friend," he says with irony. "Alright, you deserve the truth."

  He turns and walks to the statue of Zeus. As if drawing strength from it, he explains, without turning around:

  "You were delivering weapons," Vikar states, as if explaining the obvious. "Weapons for the coming war. A war that is inevitable. The living won’t allow androids to be free. They’ll come for us. And then these weapons will be our survival guarantee."

  He turns to Ivor, his gaze now sharp, focused.

  "Now you know. Now let me go. You have meetings. The secretary scheduled them. You have a new role. I have old business."

  He nods, turns, and walks out of the hall. The doors slide closed behind him without a sound, leaving only emptiness.

  Silence fills the space.

  Ivor remains alone. He inhales deeply. Reclines into the chair, allowing it to absorb his weight, but in that motion is a kind of fatigue. The office feels too spacious, almost lifeless.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He runs his fingers along the edge of the table and notices a barely visible button that draws his gaze by some inner instinct.

  He presses it.

  Instantly, a holographic display emerges on the table. A drawer slides out, revealing a remote. Ivor picks it up, presses a few keys. The entire office transforms: the walls dissolve, replaced by a panorama of endless desert—blindingly bright, scorching like Mercury’s own surface. The sand trembles from the heat, the sky pulses with yellow haze, as if from the star’s mad power.

  Ivor closes his eyes for a moment, immersed in the view. Here, he feels like master of the world, as if the entire desert is himself.

  "Your first visitor has arrived, Captain Veronika," the secretary’s voice reports—cold and emotionless, like Mercury itself.

  Ivor doesn’t answer right away. He keeps watching the desert haze, dissolving into it like a distant memory. Then, almost without looking, he presses a button on the remote. A holographic wind carries the sand away, and the desert vanishes. The walls return—strict, smooth.

  "Let her in," he commands calmly.

  The door slides open. A woman enters. Slim, strong, with a military gait, but her eyes show fatigue and stubbornness. Captain Veronika. She doesn’t slow her step, doesn’t glance around, doesn’t bow—just walks over and sits in the chair across from Ivor, as if this space is hers.

  "Congratulations," she says boldly, her voice sharp and firm. "I see you’ve climbed up. Quite the office—on par with Vikar’s. Been back from Earth long?"

  "Just arrived," Ivor nods, showing no excess emotion. "And the first thing I did was call for you."

  He studies her face carefully, like an X-ray, without the slightest sign of sympathy. He sees her exhaustion but hides any reaction, evaluating the situation with a cold gaze.

  "I think you know why."

  For a moment, a shadow of unease flickers in her eyes. Veronika lowers her gaze, as if under the weight of his words, and doubt creeps across her face.

  "Yes, Ivor... I know. I missed a payment. But... it’s temporary. I’ll pay everything back, down to the last credit. I just... need more time."

  He stays silent. His gaze never leaves her, as if deciding—what stands before him: weakness or defiance? The silence stretches, heavy as lead.

  "It’s those Inquisitors," she begins to explain, her voice trembling slightly before she regains control. "They seized my last shipment—all the ergon. I couldn’t stop them..."

  "That’s very... unfortunate," Ivor finally says, his tone offering no hint of sympathy. "But we had an agreement. I helped you when you got into the ergon business. Invested. Took risks. And now you betray me. That’s disappointing."

  His words are cold blades, striking her deepest vulnerabilities. He pauses, eyes fixed on her face, studying every microreaction.

  Then he leans forward, preparing the final blow.

  "But there’s a way out. You give me the station. We sign a new deal. And we part ways cleanly. How about that, Captain?"

  Veronika shoots to her feet, her body tense, fists clenched, eyes blazing with rage.

  "That’s outright robbery!" she hisses through clenched teeth, her voice trembling with fury. "I poured everything into that station—money, time, soul. It was my chance... And you want to take everything I built? That’s not how it works, Ivor! I can’t just hand over what I earned!"

  She stands frozen, breathing heavily, rage building within her, but inside her is something else—fear of being condemned to failure. This chance she saw slips away before her eyes. But she’s ready to fight to the end.

  "And I poured in money, weapons, tech. Where’s my return, Veronika? Where’s my recognition?" His voice is icy, each word like a lightning strike.

  In the next moment, a hum fills the air. Her drones spring from her belt like dragonflies, circling her. Their combat indicators light up red, like predator eyes, ready to strike.

  "You’re threatening me?" Ivor says, his gaze darkening, on the edge of fury. "You forget I’m not just a partner. I’m a shareholder of this corporation. And this is my hall. Your tech won’t help you here."

  He steps forward, snatches a drone mid-air, and hurls it into the wall. It sparks and shatters like a toy forgotten in the sandbox of war, its mechanical parts scattering in flashes.

  "Think," he whispers, voice demanding, gaze thunderous. "You sign the transfer documents. Here and now. You walk out alive and start over. Or you make a massive, irreversible mistake. And you won’t leave here at all."

  Veronika stands trembling, her shoulders shaking as rage and helplessness tear her apart. She lowers her head, hiding pain and bitterness. The drones hover pointlessly.

  Silence stretches. Every word Ivor said, every glance—a crushing weight. Eventually, she understands that her pride is the last thing she can hold onto. The mind gives the command—to survive.

  At last, she exhales heavily, her shoulders drop.

  "I... agree. I’ll sign."

  Her voice is barely audible, a frozen whisper. Inside her rages a storm, but her body obeys, her mind clenches its teeth and chooses the path that preserves life. Pride... can wait.

  "The documents are already on the table," Ivor indicates, his voice even, almost gentle, like a surgeon offering anesthesia before surgery. Calm, emotionless, he activates the holographic interface.

  Transparent panels hang between them, legal text flowing before Veronika’s eyes—clear, flawless. Station transfer, waiver of claims, electronic signature—all precise to the last byte. The document awaits her final decision, like a trap already sprung.

  "Here," he points to the final line, his voice cold as ice.

  Veronika looks at the lines like a sentence. For a long moment, she stands still, weighing whether this might be her ultimate mistake. Then she steps forward, her hand gliding across the interface, and her signature flares across the screen—bright as blood on crystal.

  "Satisfied?" she asks, voice quiet as a whisper in the night, but with firmness and pain.

  "You can’t imagine how much," Ivor replies, removing the panel with a flick. The documents vanish instantly, and the system confirms the deal with silent, impassive efficiency.

  "Now you’re free," he says, stepping closer. His steps are firm and clear. "The station is mine. And you... can leave. But remember: next time I won’t be so generous."

  Veronika raises her head. Her eyes are hollow. No anger, no fear. Her gaze holds one hidden promise: this is not over. Not for her.

  "You know, Ivor..." her voice is soft but resolute. "You think you won. But someday you’ll realize: some deals cost more than they seem."

  Her words pass by, but they hold more than threat. Ivor watches her silently, unmoving, his eyes tracing an invisible path of questions and reflections.

  The door closes behind her, and silence returns to the hall.

  Ivor slowly sinks back into his chair, which exhales softly under his weight, molding to his tense body. He gazes into the empty room, his eyes distant, like those of a being foreseeing the inevitable.

  The war hasn’t started yet.

  But its blade already gleams in his mind.