The train station locker smelled like rust and old newspapers.
William's hands moved with practiced efficiency now—three weeks of skulking through European transit hubs had taught him how to look like he belonged. Insert the key. Turn. Don't look around. Don't check if anyone's watching. The moment you check is the moment you confirm you have something worth hiding.
The locker door swung open.
Inside: a black duffel bag, smaller than expected. William pulled it out, tucked it under his arm, and walked toward the station's east exit without breaking stride. Cologne's Hauptbahnhof bustled around him—commuters, tourists, businesspeople absorbed in their own trajectories.
No one noticed. No one cared.
[DEAD DROP 1: ACCESSED]
[CONTENTS: Processing...]
He found a café two blocks from the station. Ordered coffee he didn't want. Unzipped the duffel beneath the table.
Twelve thousand euros in banded bills. A prepaid phone with no contacts saved. And a USB drive, the kind that looked cheap but probably cost more than everything else in the bag combined.
[INVENTORY UPDATE:]
[+12,000€ (CASH)]
[+PREPAID PHONE (UNUSED)]
[+USB DRIVE (CONTENTS: ENCRYPTED)]
[NOTE: USB encryption matches ICA standard protocol. Contents likely classified.]
William stared at the USB. Engström had been planning to sell something—something valuable enough to die for. Whatever was on this drive had gotten the informant killed, and now it was sitting in William's palm like a grenade with the pin halfway out.
"Later. Analyze it when you're somewhere secure."
He pocketed the drive, finished his coffee, and headed for the train to Lyon.
The Lyon drop was empty.
William stood in the confessional booth of Saint-Jean Cathedral, his fingers tracing the hollow where a package should have been. The wood was smooth—recently touched. Someone had been here before him.
[DEAD DROP 2: COMPROMISED]
[STATUS: Cleared (Unknown party)]
[PROBABILITY OF ICA INVOLVEMENT: 67%]
The percentage hung in his vision like a verdict. Two out of three chances that the ICA had already swept Engström's network, already collected whatever intelligence the informant had cached here.
"They're faster than you. They have more resources than you. They've been doing this for decades."
The cathedral's silence pressed against him. Somewhere above, stained glass filtered the afternoon light into colored patterns on the stone floor. Beautiful, if you had time to appreciate it.
William didn't have time.
He left through the side entrance and caught the next train to Prague.
The Prague drop was in a hotel safe.
The Grandhotel Bohemia's concierge accepted William's story without question—he was retrieving items left by a business associate, here was the safe's combination, yes he understood the hotel's liability policies. The consultant cover was holding. Jansen's paperwork was holding. Everything was holding, for now.
The safe contained a compact Beretta M9, a suppressor that screwed onto the barrel with military precision, and four hundred euros in small bills.
[DEAD DROP 3: ACCESSED]
[+BERETTA M9 (CONDITION: EXCELLENT)]
[+SUPPRESSOR (COMPATIBLE)]
[+400€ (CASH)]
[WEAPON PROFICIENCY: None detected. Training recommended.]
William had never held a real gun before. The weight was different from what movies suggested—heavier, more solid, more present. The metal was cold against his palm.
"Engström kept a weapon cached for emergencies. Smart man. Dead man."
He tucked the Beretta into his jacket's inner pocket and headed for the hotel's parking garage. Two out of three drops recovered. The USB was the real prize—everything else was just survival infrastructure.
The parking garage was empty at 3 PM. William walked toward the exit stairwell, already planning his route to the train station. Frankfurt next, maybe. Or back to Amsterdam to analyze the—
"Engström."
The voice came from behind a concrete pillar. Male. Czech-accented. Calm in the way that suggested the speaker was holding a weapon of his own.
William stopped.
A man stepped into view—late thirties, cheap leather jacket, the kind of wiry build that came from street fighting rather than gym memberships. His face was forgettable except for the scar running from his left eyebrow to his jaw.
[SYSTEM SCAN: ACTIVE]
[LUKAS BRANDT | FIXER/CRIMINAL | THREAT: MODERATE]
[COMBAT RATING: 18]
[MOTIVATION: Financial (Bounty)]
"ICA posted your face on the network three weeks ago," Brandt said. "Twenty thousand euros for information. Fifty thousand for delivery."
"I'm not Engström."
"Your passport says otherwise. So does your face." Brandt's hand moved toward his waistband—slowly, deliberately, making sure William saw. "The way I see it, you've got two options. Pay me enough to forget I saw you, or I make a phone call and collect the bounty."
William's mind raced. Twenty thousand for information. Fifty thousand for delivery. The ICA wanted Engström badly enough to put real money on the table.
"Pay him. Walk away. Live to fight another day."
The rational voice sounded like the corporate strategist he used to be. Risk mitigation. Cost-benefit analysis. The smart play was obvious.
"Or..."
The Beretta was in his jacket pocket. Loaded. Suppressor attached.
[TACTICAL ASSESSMENT:]
[TARGET DISTANCE: 6 meters]
[THREAT POSTURE: Aggressive but not imminent]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: De-escalate OR preemptive strike]
[NOTE: Target has not drawn weapon. Preemptive action would be classified as escalation, not self-defense.]
William's hand moved before he finished the calculation.
The Beretta cleared his pocket. Brandt's eyes widened—recognition, then fear, then nothing. Two shots. Center mass. The suppressor turned the gunfire into a sound like books dropping onto carpet.
Brandt fell.
The parking garage echoed with silence.
[SIN REGISTERED: MURDER (TIER 3)]
[CONTEXT: Preemptive elimination of blackmail threat]
[NOTE: Target had not drawn weapon. Self-defense modifier: DENIED]
[BASE SP: 85]
[MODIFIER: x0.8 (Low-threat target)]
[TOTAL SP EARNED: 68]
[CURRENT SP: 299]
[HUMANITY: 91 → 88 (-3)]
William stood over the body. His hands weren't shaking. They should have been shaking.
"I just killed someone. Deliberately. By choice."
The thought arrived like a news bulletin from another country. Factual. Distant.
[SKILL HARVEST AVAILABLE]
[TARGET: LUKAS BRANDT]
[AVAILABLE SKILLS:]
[- STREETFIGHTING (BASIC) | Quality: Bronze]
[- CZECH LANGUAGE (CONVERSATIONAL) | Quality: Bronze]
[- BLACK MARKET CONTACTS (PRAGUE) | Quality: Bronze]
[SELECT ONE:]
The menu hovered in William's vision. A corpse at his feet and the system was offering him a shopping list.
"Streetfighting. I need to survive physical encounters."
He made the selection.
[SKILL ABSORPTION: STREETFIGHTING (BASIC)]
[QUALITY: Bronze (Clean kill, single target)]
[INTEGRATION: Processing...]
The knowledge didn't arrive like learning. It arrived like remembering—muscle memory he'd never built, instincts he'd never developed, settling into his body like water filling a container. How to throw a punch without breaking his thumb. How to take a hit without freezing. How to recognize when someone was about to grapple.
Basic. Crude. Better than nothing.
[SKILL INTEGRATION: COMPLETE]
[NEW SKILL: STREETFIGHTING (BASIC) — Bronze Tier]
[NOTE: Bronze-tier skills provide instinctive foundation. Mastery requires practice.]
William looked at Brandt's body. The man's eyes were still open.
He closed them. Not out of respect—out of the practical awareness that open-eyed corpses drew more attention. Then he walked to the stairwell, climbed to street level, and disappeared into Prague's afternoon crowds.
The Beretta weighed almost nothing in his pocket.
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