Sobolev Institute, cooled server room, eight in the evening. Volkov waited, Makarov in hand, surgeon's smile. Three chairs lined up, a tarp in the corner. The fourth suicide was already staged.

"Irina Petrovna, you disappointed me. And you, Doctor Kom, you were right in 2018. A shame no one ever knew."

Kom raised his hands slowly, stepping sideways to clear the angle.

"General, let's talk about the reduction lemma. Your model assumes Gaussian errors. But if the noise is sub exponential, the bound collapses."

Volkov frowned. One second. Two. Enough.

Behind him, Irina slid the USB into the master rack. Green light. KOSCHEI, turned against its master, began to sign. Meridian offshore accounts, Cayman, Jersey, Singapore, emptied into escrow at the Bank for International Settlements.

Volkov saw the screen. His face changed. He fired. Kom pivoted, deflected the barrel, elbow to the throat, armbar on the floor. Boots in the corridor. FSB guards, alerted through a Cameroonian channel Nadia had opened from Kotto. Volkov cuffed, screaming in Russian.

Adjoining lab. Irina placed a pan on the hotplate, two Choco Kom pods, milk, cocoa. Her hands still shook. Kom drank without taking his eyes off her.

On the still-glowing screen, a final line appeared, typed by no one.

Meridian node 2 of 7 neutralized. Five remain.

Want to know who writes when no hands touch the keyboard? Message me on Messenger, we'll count the five together. ☕