Bruno returned to one of his quieter safe spots a little later with one thought clawing through his head.
He had to find the old man before Gonda did.
The more he replayed the meetings, the clearer one thing became. The old man always called him to cafes. Never the same one twice. Never too close together. Public places, multiple exits, enough distance to keep any single pattern from looking obvious.
'Then I'll turn that pattern against you,' Bruno thought. 'I'll check every cafe myself if I have to.'
Rafi and Toma were with him. Bruno glanced at both and said, "If you keep following me in this, you might end up worse than me."
He lifted his injured hand a little.
Neither man flinched.
Rafi shrugged. "We only care about money."
Toma smirked. "Pay us enough and we'll even go against Boss."
Bruno looked at them in silence. Greedy men were dangerous. Greedy men were also predictable.
"Fine," he said. "Then listen."
He named the cafes he remembered, the roads between them, and the type of questions they were supposed to ask. Then he sent messages to a few men he trusted more than the rest, men he had personally recruited into the gang over the years.
"If any of you find something," Bruno told them all, "you report to me first. No one else."
Rafi caught the meaning immediately. "You're hiding this from Boss?"
Bruno's face hardened. "I'm trying not to die."
Far away, Adam was still sitting in front of the opened box of chips.
Now that the first satisfaction had passed, the problem in front of him looked larger. There were twelve types in the box. Some were lower-grade controller chips for simple machines. Some handled signals, power, or interfaces. A few were far better than anything the local market would value immediately, but Adam knew their future worth.
Most were unprogrammed.
He had only eight inventory slots. Even if he cleared them perfectly, twelve kinds would still not fit. Leaving the chips sitting in the apartment was also risky. Heat, theft, moisture, carelessness, and simple bad luck could ruin too much too quickly.
'The material is my responsibility until it reaches Kenji,' Adam thought.
After a minute, he chose four lower-processing types first. Those were easier to move early and safer to test in the market. He copied them, packed the rest back into the box, and locked the apartment behind him.
He needed a second base.
The lab Kenji and Shinju knew about could not become the source point for everything. Adam needed a separate place where stock could arrive, be copied, be sorted, and be sent out without dragging the whole risk chain to their office.
He also needed one more person. Not someone brilliant. Not someone hungry for power. Just someone steady enough to move goods and keep his mouth shut.
For both problems, his future memories gave him the same answer.
Still wearing the middle-aged disguise, Adam traveled three districts away and then farther into a zone known for warehouses, delivery yards, vehicle service centers, and spare-parts businesses. Goods moved through this area all day. That made it perfect.
A local broker showed him a one-story property tucked between a closed tool store and a parts depot. The front had one usable room and a narrow office corner. The back opened into a broad storage space that looked almost like a small godown.
More importantly, the place had two features Adam wanted. Trucks could stop in the lane without attracting notice, and the rear storage section could be reached without passing through the front room every time. That meant incoming stock, copied stock, and outgoing stock could be separated if he stayed disciplined.
He even checked the neighborhood before agreeing. Two mechanics across the lane. A locked warehouse next door that only opened in the mornings. Busy enough to hide movement. Ordinary enough that no one would care if another business appeared overnight. For Adam, that balance mattered more than comfort.
The broker, a thin man with sharp eyes, asked, "What kind of work?"
"Electronic stock and dispatch," Adam said. "Nothing illegal. Nothing explosive."
"How long?"
"A year if the rate is fair."
The man relaxed at once and named an inflated price. Adam walked through the building before answering. He checked the shutter, the side entrance, the rear wall, and the lock. Only then did he come back.
"Twelve thousand up front," Adam said. "Three months paid now. After that, normal rent. I take the key today, and you stop asking unnecessary questions."
The broker hesitated only until Adam showed the cash.
Ten minutes later the key was in Adam's hand and the place was his under the middle-aged identity.
It was not ideal, but it was enough.
One problem solved.
The other problem had a name.
Sayash.
One of the very few real friends Adam had ever made in his previous life.
Sayash had never been highly educated. Before Adam came to know him, he had worked labor jobs, saved slowly, and eventually managed to get a small truck. After that he drove at night, took extra shifting work during the day, and slept only a few hours whenever home expenses got worse.
Everything in his house depended on him. His parents. His sister. His younger brother. Later, after an early marriage, his wife too. His father still earned something, but never enough to ease the load.
So Sayash carried it himself.
He was genuine in a way Adam had almost stopped believing in. And in the previous life, just because he became close to Adam, he had paid for it. A crash had wrecked his leg and broken the course of his life with it.
Adam stood outside the new property for a few seconds, thinking about that old debt.
Then he turned his mind toward where he could find Sayash first.