The official stopped mid-stride, his retinue halting behind him like iron statues. The cloud of steam, thick with savory promise, enveloped him. He inhaled deeply, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his severe features. His gaze, sharp and assessing, landed on Mireya, then on Drazan, before settling on the ceramic pot still steaming in the apartment’s doorway. “What is this concoction?” The man's voice was a low rumble, accustomed to immediate obedience. His eyes narrowed, taking in Mireya’s delicate frame, then the bloody smears on Drazan’s coat. “A new ration, Enforcer Vukov?” the visitor demanded. Drazan stepped forward, shielding Mireya slightly. “My wife’s… simple evening meal, Minister.” His voice, usually a flat command, held a note of subtle defensiveness. Mireya, from behind him, rolled her eyes. *Simple, he calls it. Weeks of careful salting and patient brewing, just so I don’t have to step foot in that communal kitchen.* The visitor ignored Drazan, his attention fixed on the pot. He gestured to one of his escorts. “Bring it.” The sentry, a hulking man with a scar bisecting his jaw, hesitated, looking to Drazan for permission. Drazan offered only a stony silence. The senior bureaucrat's gaze sharpened. “Must I fetch it myself?” With a curt nod from Drazan, the man carefully lifted the heavy ceramic pot and presented it forward. The official peered inside, the rich aroma swirling around him. “Lentils, fortified meat… preserved with salt and something else. What is the seasoning, woman?” he demanded, addressing Mireya directly. “Just… local herbs, Minister,” Mireya murmured, feigning shyness, a small, innocent smile playing on her lips. “From the communal garden.” She conveniently omitted the part where those ‘herbs’ were a mix of scavenged, rare spices she’d traded for with Rurik, intended to mask the slightly off-taste of ancient, brined protein. He dipped a knuckle into the thick stew, a move that made his guards tense. He brought it to his lips, his expression unreadable. His eyes closed for a moment, savoring the taste. Then they snapped open, blazing with an intensity that bordered on furious joy. “Ingenious!” he boomed, startling Mireya. “A self-contained, shelf-stable, *delicious* protein source! This will revolutionize our ration system! No more reliance on stale grain and synthetic pastes!” He turned to an aide, a nervous man with a perpetually sweaty brow. “Immediately draft a State Registry for this recipe! Secure all rights to… to whom?” He looked at Mireya again. “Your name, woman?” “Mireya Korlan, Minister,” Drazan answered, his hand subtly resting on her back, a possessive gesture. “Mireya Korlan,” the official repeated, a triumphant glint in his gaze. “You will be compensated handsomely, Korlan. This recipe will feed our district! A state asset!” He looked at Drazan. “Ensure she has everything she requires to continue her… culinary efforts, Enforcer. This is far too valuable to leave to chance.” With a final, satisfied nod, the man handed the pot back to the guard, the steam still wafting. “We will expect a sample batch by month’s end. Congratulations, Korlan. You have served the state well.” He turned and marched down the hall, his escorts struggling to keep pace, the scent of Mireya’s accidental success lingering in the air. Mireya watched them go, a single, languid blink of disbelief. *A state grant? For tossing salted meat into a radiator? This is almost too easy.* Her goal of retiring by twenty seemed to have taken a massive, unexpected leap forward. Meanwhile, miles away in the reeking, oil-stained alleyways beneath the towering concrete skeletons of the old industrial district, Janna Hanza hunched over a workbench. Her hair, usually a tight bun, had long since escaped, straggling around her soot-smudged face. Empty cans of nutrient paste littered the concrete around her after another eighteen-hour shift. “Almost there,” she muttered, her voice hoarse from lack of sleep and chemical fumes. The crude circuit board, cobbled together from scavenged ’70s microchips and painstakingly etched copper wire, shimmered under the single flickering bulb. It was her magnum opus, her attempt to miniaturize a communications relay, to bring the future to this desolate past. Sweat beaded on her forehead, stinging her eyes as she delicately connected the last vacuum tube. “A new era,” she whispered, her hands trembling with exhaustion and anticipation. “No more bulky, unreliable systems. Precision. Efficiency.” She connected the power source, a scavenged car battery that hummed with protest. Her eyes, bloodshot and burning, fixed on the array of indicator lights. The first light flickered green. A gasp of triumph escaped her lips. The second, then the third. Her ribs rattled, not with fear, but under the raw, kinetic hum of creation. This was it. This was the breakthrough. Mireya Korlan could languish in her parasitic comfort. Janna Hanza would *build* the future. Then, a sharp *CRACK!* The circuit board jolted, the green lights sputtering. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the central capacitor. Janna froze as cold bile surged in her throat. She reached for the power cut-off, but it was too late. *POP!* A brilliant, blinding flash erupted. Sparks showered upwards, scorching her eyebrows and singeing her hair. The acrid smell of ozone and burning plastic filled the cramped space. The car battery groaned, then went dead. Darkness plunged the alley into deeper gloom, broken only by the angry, crackling remnants of the shorted circuit. Janna coughed, choking on the smoke, her eyes watering. Her prototype, the culmination of weeks of relentless, brutal labor, was a charred, smoking ruin. Humiliation, sharp and bitter, rose in her throat. She had nothing. Mireya, with her lazy, indulgent life, had been granted a lucrative state title. Janna, who had bled and burned for progress, had only ashes. Back in the Zelen-Tier Residential Block, a week later, Mireya sprawled on a plush, inherited sofa, admiring the new, intricately embroidered silk shawl Drazan had purchased for her. The official grant had materialized with astonishing speed, accompanied by an initial stipend of fifty thousand krons—more wealth than Mireya had ever dreamed of, enough to buy a small fleet of the clunky, gas-guzzling vehicles she occasionally saw in the street. Her name, Mireya Korlan, was now prominently displayed on a sleek, brass plaque outside the communal kitchen, announcing her unique contribution to the state’s nutritional security. The irony was not lost on her. A knock echoed through the flat. Drazan, who had been meticulously polishing a new, state-issued ceremonial blade, rose instantly. He opened the door to reveal Rurik, Mireya’s kindly black-market smuggler, his face etched with familiar creases, carrying a heavy, leather-bound satchel. “Little Sparrow,” Rurik greeted Mireya, his voice a warm rasp. “Your fortune arrives.” He placed the satchel on the polished floor. “More krons, new ration coupons, and a personal commendation from Volkov himself.” He winked. “He sent a junior aide to oversee the delivery, just to be sure.” Mireya smiled, a genuinely pleased expression. Rurik, in his own way, had always looked out for her. He’d brought her rare spices, helped her navigate the black market for comfort items, even given her a few odd coins when she was truly desperate. She watched as Rurik exchanged a few pleasantries with Drazan, their voices low. The junior aide, a thin, anxious man, stood respectfully a few paces away in the hallway, clutching a small, leather valise. As Rurik turned to leave, he offered the aide a small, ornate silver flask. “For the journey, comrade. A special brew to settle the nerves.” The aide, grateful for the gesture, took a long swig. Rurik’s eyes, as he watched the man drink, held a fleeting, cold gleam that chilled Mireya despite her heated quarters. The aide coughed, a soft, wet sound, then his eyes glazed over, and he slowly crumpled to the ground, his valise clattering beside him. Rurik merely stepped over him, his expression unchanged, and quietly pulled the door shut. “Such a clumsy fellow,” he murmured, without looking at Drazan or Mireya. Drazan’s hand went to his ceremonial blade, his eyes fixed on the closed door, but he said nothing. Mireya felt a prickle of unease. Rurik had always been ruthless, but this was… too open. Too casual. Later that evening, Drazan was called away for an emergency enforcement detail. The building settled into an eerie quiet. Mireya, having finished a leisurely meal of her prized stew, stretched out on her newly acquired, lavish silk rug. She had intended to fold it and put it away, but the sheer effort had seemed excessive. It lay bunched near the door, a soft, shimmering impediment. A faint *click* echoed from the front door. Mireya’s eyes snapped open. Drazan had the only key. A shadow detached itself from the dim hallway, slipping into the room. The figure was clad in dark, form-fitting clothing, a heavy garrote clutched in one hand. An assassin. Mireya, instead of screaming, merely blinked. *How terribly inconvenient.* She had just gotten comfortable. The assassin, focused on the bed where he expected his target to be, moved swiftly, silently. He took two steps, his boot snagging on the bunched silk rug. His momentum carried him forward, his arms flailing wildly. There was a comical *THWACK!* as his head connected with the solid concrete wall with surprising force. He dropped like a sack of bricks, the garrote clattering beside him. Mireya slowly sat up. *Honestly, the incompetence.* She sighed, carefully swinging her legs off the sofa. She padded over to the unconscious man, nudging him with her bare foot. His face was obscured by a dark hood, but his breathing was shallow and ragged. She bent down, her palms deftly patting his pockets until her knuckles brushed against something hard, metallic. She pulled it out. It was a coin, dull silver, etched with a single, stylized shadow-bird. The exact same coin she had seen Rurik idly spinning between his knuckles earlier that morning, just before he had delivered her fortune and poisoned the official's aide.

Unwanted Fortune