When she opened her eyes,
snow gusts swirled around Ksava,
fighting to stay in the air,
clinging to unstable nanoelectromagnetic waves.
Relentless weather.
The car flew toward a skyway and parked on the shoulder.
"We here?"
"Yes,"
the AI replied.
Before Ksava could ask a follow-up,
Akilina opened the door
and stepped out.
She sent a command for Ksava to find the nearest parking zone—
he obeyed.
White swallowed everything.
She squinted,
but couldn't see a damn thing ahead.
Each year, winters got harsher,
summers more deadly.
The last Russian summer had hit over forty-five degrees.
This year was promising over fifty.
Winters in Moscow easily dropped to minus twenty-five—
and kept falling.
Akilina grew up hearing the same story:
factories devouring the green,
fucking tech companies profiting off scarcity.
Pure oxygen for the rich.
Semi-pure for those crawling in the underworld.
Breathing shouldn't be a privilege.
But it was.
And maybe that's why it pissed her off so much.
Her mother got sick from that shit.
Respiratory problems.
Choking cough.
Almost coughed her organs out.
One day, she'd kill the bastard who sold it to Darya.
Even so,
her mother still had breath left to send all those messages,
make all those calls.
The thirty-fourth call from Mamochka flashed on the holoscreen.
Akilina closed the projection.
What was she expecting?
A hand clamped over her mouth.
Her nose pinched.
Yanked backward.
Her head slammed into something.
When she opened her eyes, a guy was smiling.
She rubbed the back of her neck, furrowed her brow,
and shot him a glare of pure disgust.
"Gotta learn to defend yourself, svoloch."
The tone cracked like a whip.
Blue eyes. Small. Almond-shaped.
The kind of dog eyes that'd do anything for their master.
Rurik.
Her father's right-hand man.
Ex-Russian Army.
He lit a cigarette
and blew the smoke in her face.
"Answer me, brat.
Don't give me that shit-eater look."
His car hovered nearby.
The AI kept it stable without breaking a sweat.
Obviously a Duo or Una model—
top of the market.
Ksava was good,
but factories no longer made Ninth-Gen AIs.
Especially not her Ciotto's model—
a 2120 classic.
Now, a collectible.
How many assholes at the bar had tried to convince her?
Trade Ksava for implants?
For disgusting prosthetics?
She remembered Yegor's boozy breath,
asking if she'd sell that "beauty" for half a million ninrublos.
She turned them all down.
"Fuck off, asshole."
Akilina drank more vodka.
The man laughed
and left.
Some woman sat in his place.
Always someone different.
She shook off the thoughts.
Stared at Rurik.
"What the fuck was that, dumbass?
Almost snapped my neck."
"You know how to swear?
Pretty fucking weak,
but you'll get there."
More smoke in her face.
A smug grin.
She rolled her eyes.
Didn't flinch.
"Your implant's shit."
She meant the metal half of his face.
Skin stitched with cables,
hair short and shaved at the sides,
framing a square jaw.
"Getting better with that filthy mouth, huh?"
Fuck, would he ever stop smiling?
She turned away,
chose silence for the rest of the ride.
Rurik didn't mind.
The hours dragged.
Akilina grew impatient.
Rurik noticed her fingers twitching
and offered her a cigarette.
"What the fuck is this?"
She frowned.
Tobacco. Rolled by his fingers.
"You smoke this crap?"
"Crap is those synthetic neural drugs
you kids shove up your asses."
He spun the cig in his fingers.
"This? This is the good shit.
Natural Cuban herb.
I roll mine by hand.
Feel honored I'm giving you one."
Akilina imagined the taste.
She liked sniffing nanodrugs,
setting her biochip so the effects lasted an hour.
That way, no addiction.
But this—
this was something else.
Natural drugs were addictive.
No biochip sync. No regulation.
What kind of high would this trash give?
She toyed with the cig between her fingers.
He offered her a lighter.
This guy was definitely weird.
A lighter?
Who the hell used those anymore?
She lit it.
Inhaled.
Smoke scorched her throat.
Coughed hard.
Rurik waited patiently,
hiding sarcasm behind that grin.
She tried again.
And again.
No effect.
She knew that shit wouldn't work.
Finished smoking.
The car's black interior filled with haze.
She leaned forward.
The world spun.
Blood pressure dropped.
A singular dizziness.
Earthy taste flooded her mouth.
The numbness was worth it.
"Was I supposed to feel that?"
Akilina braced her hands on the seat.
Blinking slowly,
as if reality needed rearranging.
"Feels good, huh?"
Rurik dragged again.
"Shut up. Gimme another."
He raised a brow.
"Hedeon said you were like this."
Handed her another.
"We don't treat our own like shit.
Watch your tongue, svoloch."
"Right. You guys nearly break each other's necks for fun?"
Rurik smirked.
"You're not one of us yet."
She snatched the cig from his hand,
pocketed it.
Two more hours on the road.
Four cigarettes.
Across the solar cycles that followed,
she'd realize the Colombian herbs Denden smuggled in were better.
Her fingers would never leave a cigarette again.
She'd be smoking three packs a day.
And honestly—
who wouldn't, in that kind of life?
Rurik parked.
The Bratva's walls loomed like a fortress carved from ice,
near historic sites buried beneath snow
and dead vines.
Akilina followed,
pushing against the freezing gusts that shoved her backward.
Above, guards blurred by the snowy mist
aimed down their rifles.
This was real.
No turning back.
Two guards—one human, one android—blocked the path.
Rurik didn't slow down.
When they recognized him, their faces turned pale with shame.
The second most powerful figure in the global Bratva.
If he walked into any mafia branch,
the local Pakhan had to bow his head.
Akilina looked around.
Huge warehouses.
Each a different destination.
She avoided thinking about what happened inside.
If they trained her to replace her father,
she'd have to swallow her morals.
That was the price of being here.
All she wanted was to be near him.
She could tolerate the rest.
They passed the nanometal-clad warehouses.
Ahead, Khalmer-Yu's small castle.
Poisonous weeds clung to the gray concrete like living traps.
Hidden micro-blades lined the walls—
able to fly a hundred meters to slit throats.
They'd slice anyone not in the nanosystem.
The fortress was run by Una,
Bratva's most advanced AI.
Its database updated daily.
Hacked motherboards from the world's ruling corps.
The shit.
The world.
Her father.
Their fates tangled.
Soon, hers would be too.
The wind sliced like razors,
whipping her skin,
stealing her breath.
This place was a prelude
to the cruelty of that world.
Would she live here?
If that was the price of being near him…
Maybe she could take the cuts.
The gate opened automatically for Rurik.
They crossed a frozen garden.
Dry shrubs.
Trees petrified by cold.
Fallen leaves shimmered under the dim,
heavy-cloud light.
Winter days barely existed.
Here, even less.
Akilina would get used to it.
Inside, heat blasted against her skin.
She stripped off her coat,
wrapped it in her arms.
A robotic coat rack leaned toward her.
"May I take your coat, Akilina?"
Too polite for this place.
She handed it over
and followed Rurik.
He walked ahead without looking back.
The hallway was long.
Lined with doors.
He stopped at the last one.
Knocked twice.
A voice, sharp like a bullet splitting air,
granted entry.
Akilina stepped in.
A gold frame—monumental—surrounded a portrait of two elders.
Her grandparents?
The wall shimmered with shelves stacked full of paper books.
She knew those still existed.
Didn't expect her father to keep a collection.
Soon she'd learn—
paper might be the deadliest weapon
in this nanotronic planet.
The world's rats—those who held everyone's data—
had no data on the Bratva.
The Russian mafia drowned in cybercrimes.
They hacked corporations,
blackmailed them for billions—trillions.
If they didn't pay,
the info was sold to the black market or the press,
crashing stocks.
Usually, it was the Russian monarchy that bought it,
using it as leverage over other governments.
Paper became the safest place to hide secrets.
After all—paper can't be hacked.
Hedeon looked up from his papers.
The gray chip in his cheek glowed faintly.
Every Pakhan had one.
The texture of his skin—pale, like hers.
His green eyes—like hers—
landed coldly on them both.
He sighed, impatient.
Set the documents down,
ran fingers through his dark brown hair.
Also like hers.
Truth was—
she'd only seen him once,
in a photo her mother showed her.
Never more than voice calls.
His severe features were exactly as imagined.
"Took you long enough, Rurik."
He walked in,
leaned against an empty desk,
arms crossed.
"The little brat here was an hour late."
Finally, he looked at his daughter.
"Trix, welcome."
Trix?
How long since she'd heard that name?
Didn't even remember who gave it to her.
Her mother was the only one who called her that.
Trix.
She repeated it to herself.
Akilina Orlov Volkov would have to vanish in this life.
She walked to the center of the room.
Dragged her feet across the black carpet.
Missed having pockets in her coat.
Not knowing what to do with her hands,
she crossed her arms.
"So?"
Her father raised his eyebrows.
"Your mother taught you to talk like that?"
He turned to Rurik.
"All set?"
The man nodded.
Left them alone.