Rurik’s breath, stale with cheap wine, brushed Mireya’s ear. “A pity your clumsiness saved Drazan, my dear. Such a devoted husband. Tell me, Mireya, how much do you value his life? Because at this very moment, his enforcement squad is walking into a rigged explosive trap in the industrial district.” Janna, still clutching her prototype, blinked, confused. “What trap? What are you talking about, Rurik? My patents! You were going to buy my patents!” Mireya didn’t even glance at Janna. The dining room’s dim lights cast long shadows across the linoleum, the clinking of cutlery dull and irregular. Her hands, still resting on the tablecloth, felt heavy. She couldn't abandon her carefully cultivated persona now, not with Rurik’s gaze so sharp, so utterly devoid of warmth. To bolt, to scream, would expose everything. The velvet couch, the effortless future, Drazan’s quiet devotion – all of it would shatter. She lifted a manicured hand, lazily pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “My dear Janna,” Mireya purred, her voice a practiced murmur of bored entitlement. “Always so dramatic. Rurik here… he’s simply explaining that your little ‘new energy, new communication’ trinkets are quite passé. Why buy them when he can just… take them?” Janna’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air. “Take them? What are you saying? These are my life’s work!” Rurik merely smiled, a thin, cruel line, confirming Mireya’s pointed accusation. His eyes remained fixed on Mireya, daring her to make a move. He was testing her, seeing if she would break. Mireya stifled a delicate yawn, leaning back against the plush banquette. “Oh, darling, it’s terribly obvious. He’ll let you run, then his… *friends*… will ‘relieve’ you of your burden. Then, perhaps, he’ll even charge you with state espionage for attempting to flee with stolen property. After all, anything invented within Ostra-Vane belongs to Ostra-Vane, doesn’t it?” She shifted, her gaze finally drifting to Janna, a flicker of something calculating in her usually placid eyes. “And once you’re gone, what better way to dispose of your loose ends than to blow up the very squad that would investigate his little side projects?” Janna’s face drained of color. She looked from Mireya’s serene, seemingly indifferent expression to Rurik’s predatory smirk. “No… no, he wouldn’t…” “Oh, but he would,” Mireya drawled, picking a speck of lint from her sleeve. “Such a shame. All that effort, all that burning ambition… to end up as a nameless statistic in the industrial records. Unless, of course, someone were to warn them.” Mireya’s gaze held Janna’s, a silent challenge. “Someone with a certain… *talent* for disrupting things. Someone who could, say, create a rather inconvenient energy pulse right about now.” Janna pulled back, a dawning horror mixed with sudden understanding. Mireya was telling her that her only chance to save her work, to save *herself*, was to sacrifice it. To use her prized invention not for profit, but for destruction, to save the very man Mireya had so often mocked. The choice was a bitter pill, a poison Mireya had expertly sugar-coated. “But… my apparatus…” Janna whispered, clutching the intricate circuit board. “It’s not designed for that. It would… it would destroy it.” Mireya shrugged. “A small price for your life, wouldn’t you agree? And perhaps, a chance to show Rurik here that you’re not as easily pilfered as he imagines. Or you could always just sit there and wait for the explosion to echo through the city. Either way, my supper is getting cold.” Janna stared at Mireya, then at Rurik, then at the door. Her mouth twitched, her mind racing with calculations of voltage, frequency, and catastrophic feedback loops. The truth of Mireya’s words, cold and sharp, sliced through her ambition. Rurik was not buying her tech; he was waiting to take it. And Drazan’s life, perhaps even her own, hinged on her frantic, ruinous gamble. With a strangled cry that was half rage, half terror, Janna bolted from the table, her crude prototype clutched like a shield, and vanished through the heavy street doors, leaving behind a bewildered silence. *** The air in the industrial district of Kraynov-Veld tasted of burnt oil and fear. Drazan Vukov moved through it like a ghost made of muscle and bone. His squad, a dozen hardened men, swept through the derelict assembly plant, their heavy boots crunching on corroded metal shards. They’d been tipped off about a black-market armaments cache, but the silence felt too heavy, too complete. “Hold!” Drazan barked, his voice rough. He saw it then—a glint of moonlight on a discarded fuel drum, reflecting from a sniper scope in a high gantry. Too late. The crack of a rifle echoed, followed by a searing pain in his left shoulder. He staggered, but didn’t fall, gripping his service pistol. The wound burned, blood blossoming dark on his coat, but a deeper, colder fury settled in his gut. Mireya. He had to get back to Mireya. From the shadows, figures swarmed, dark shapes with crude bludgeons and rusty blades. Shadow-ring thugs. This wasn’t an armaments raid; it was an execution. Drazan roared, a sound torn from his chest, and fired. A thug collapsed, gurgling. He kicked another away, his uninjured arm moving in a brutal arc, the pistol a swift extension of his will. He fought with a relentless savagery, fueled by an almost unbearable longing for the quiet comfort of his apartment, for Mireya’s soft, indolent presence. They wanted to take him from her. They wouldn't. He felt the impact of a heavy pipe across his ribs, heard the sickening crack, but pain was a distant hum. His vision tunneled, focused only on the next attacker, the next kill. He had to survive. For her. He saw one of his men go down, another pinned against a wall. They were outnumbered, outmaneuvered. Then, from the highest gantry, a small, red light began to pulse. The detonator. A high-pitched whine started, growing louder, vibrating through the metal floor. The air shimmered, the smell of ozone joining the grime and rust. This was it. The end. Suddenly, Janna Hanza burst into the plant, her face streaked with grime, her gaze fixed with terror and something else—a frantic, furious resolve. She held up her life’s work, the intricate rig of scavenged wires and tubes, like a strange, glowing offering. She screamed, a ragged sound, “Hold on!” With a wild surge of power, Janna slammed her module against a sparking conduit, bypassing its safety protocols. A blinding flash erupted, a deafening *CRACK* that seemed to rip the very air. The high-pitched whine of the detonator died, replaced by a shower of sparks and the smell of burning electronics. Janna cried out, her hands smoking, her device – her precious, unique, irreplaceable creation – melted and fused into a useless slag of metal and burnt wires. The EMP had worked. The detonator was inert. The thugs paused, disoriented, their crude communication earpieces sparking and dying. Drazan, spitting blood, used the momentary confusion to drive a broken metal rod through the chest of the nearest attacker. His world tilted, but the image of Mireya’s calm, pale face kept him upright. He wouldn’t let them win. *** The dining hall remained hushed, the space where Janna had stood still feeling vacant. Rurik watched Mireya, his smile now completely gone, replaced by a cold, calculating analysis. He hadn’t believed she could manipulate Janna so swiftly, so effectively. He hadn't believed Janna would actually sacrifice her work. Mireya, meanwhile, simply picked up her fork, nudging a piece of preserved meat around her plate. Her expression was one of profound disinterest, as if the fate of state enforcers and frantic rivals were utterly beneath her concern. She was a picture of elegant apathy, a master of feigned inaction. But inside, a coiled tension remained. Would it be enough? Would Drazan be safe? A sudden, violent *CRASH* shattered the fragile peace. The heavy oak doors of the restaurant were kicked inward, splintering from their hinges. Every patron gasped, cutlery clattering to the floor. Standing framed in the ruined doorway, his uniform torn and slick with dark, fresh blood, his breath ragged, was Drazan Vukov. His left shoulder was a mangled mess, his ribs visibly bruised, but his eyes, blazing with an infernal fury, scanned the room. They locked onto Rurik, sitting at the table, a stunned expression slowly spreading across the smuggler’s face.

Signal Jam