Viktor Romanov sat on the sun-drenched patio of his mansion, holding a delicate bone china teacup in his manicured fingers. The scent of freshly brewed Darjeeling wafted through the morning air as his English butler set down a silver tray laden with breakfast. Beside him, a young and attractive maid placed a rack of toast before retreating with downcast eyes. He briefly considered making an advance on her—she was tempting, after all—but dismissed the thought. Too close to home. A wife and a mistress were demanding enough. He preferred the occasional human call girl, although those were becoming increasingly rare. The new generation of androids was nearly indistinguishable from real women—almost—but Viktor still noticed the difference. And he preferred humans.

  Humans could be manipulated, deceived, or intimidated. Robots lacked fear, and fear was half the pleasure. He enjoyed watching the subtle play of emotions on people’s faces—the flicker of apprehension, the reluctant respect. His butler, for example, regarded him with a blend of admiration and unease, a combination Viktor found deeply satisfying.

  He picked up a slice of toast, crisp and buttered to perfection, and nibbled at it as his gaze drifted across the expanse of his estate. The sprawling lawn, manicured in the style of Versailles, stretched toward the horizon, beyond which other grand mansions loomed. His home stood in the same elite district as Adam’s father’s, though their social circles rarely overlapped.

  As he chewed, his thoughts naturally veered toward business—the only business he truly enjoyed: crime. Not the petty, desperate crimes of ordinary thieves, but something grander, something with risk, with thrill. And an idea took shape in his mind, sharp and enticing. Mikal’s remote-controlled robots. What if they weren’t just toys? What if they became instruments of wealth—his wealth? Burglary was far more lucrative than street muggings. And if the robots could be operated remotely, there would be no risks, no messy entanglements. Fully autonomous machines? No, he didn’t trust those. But humans controlling machines—now that had potential. He would put the idea to Mikal.

  Later that morning, the limousine came to a halt outside the warehouse, its glossy black frame gleaming under the pitiless sun. Shadows sliced across the cracked pavement. The door eased open, and he stepped out—composed, commanding, every detail of his appearance immaculate. His four henchmen followed in formation, dressed in tailored suits and sweeping black overcoats. At a glance, they might have passed for high-powered attorneys. But their sheer bulk and the weathered, battle-marked faces betrayed a different truth—these men were forged in violence, not boardrooms.

  He held a box of fresh doughnuts in one hand—a rare, almost jarring gesture of appreciation for Mikal and Seb’s recent string of victories. A small cash bonus would come later, once the spoils from the muggings had been counted, sorted, and justified. But for now, this was their reward: sugar-glazed recognition.

  Viktor approached the warehouse’s green metal door, fingers poised over the keypad—then paused. The door was ajar.

  His jaw tightened. Carelessness. Dangerous carelessness. He would reprimand Mikal for such a foolish mistake.

  With a terse nod, he signalled his men, and they followed as he stepped inside. The warehouse was eerily silent, the air thick with the scent of oil and metal. The industrial lift groaned as it carried them to the top floor. As the accordion-like metal gate was flung open, Viktor’s eyes scanned the space.

  Something was wrong.

  The robots. The remote-control workstations. They were gone.

  His pulse quickened. “Mikal!” His voice rang out, reverberating through the vast room. Silence answered him.

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  His strides lengthened as he moved toward the living quarters at the back of the floor, his henchmen close behind. Then he stopped abruptly.

  His shoes stuck to the floor.

  He glanced down, expecting to see oil or some industrial fluid—common enough in a place like this. But what pooled beneath his feet was something else entirely.

  Blood.

  A lot of it.

  His men exchanged uneasy glances, hands twitching toward their weapons. Viktor’s breath quickened as he pushed forward, his focus narrowing. The kitchen. The lounge. The bedroom. The same story—thick, congealed blood soaking into carpets, smearing across the floor. His heart pounded against his ribs, ice threading through his veins.

  “Search the warehouse,” he ordered, his voice edged with both fury and desperation. “Find Mikal.”

  Like a pack of bloodhounds, his henchmen fanned out, combing the space.

  A single tear cut a path down his face, quickly followed by another. Then anger surged through him, burning away the grief.

  One of the henchmen, Del—known in certain circles as “The Friendly Assassin” or simply “The Jackal”—wore a constant grin. It never left his face, not even in the instant he pulled the trigger and painted a wall with someone’s final thoughts. That was his preferred method: lull the mark into a false sense of ease with effortless charm and gentle nods, then strike when they least expected it. Smiling. Always smiling.

  The other three spread out across the cavernous upper level of the warehouse. Once, it had buzzed with the sounds of lathes, forklifts, and crates being shipped. Now, it was a graveyard of metal bones—rusted machinery and dusty boxes. They moved like ghosts through the living quarters and rust-choked corridors, flitting between shadows cast by cracked skylights and long-forgotten industrial grates. Every now and then, they glimpsed one another—just a flicker, a shape slipping past the edge of vision—before vanishing again into the gloom. All of them were hunting the same thing: Mikal or Seb. Or their bodies.

  Del prowled near the area where the workstations had once stood and the docking stations where the mugger robots would be charged. Now, they were mysteriously empty—only the gaming chairs remained, silent witnesses to whatever had happened.

  That’s where he found it: a bulging cloth sack, slumped behind a collapsed station, heavy with loot—jewels, rings, wads of cash, wallets stuffed with cards. Spoils from the mugger bots’ nocturnal rampage.

  He knelt and opened it. The sack’s contents glittered like a miniature Aladdin’s cave under the sterile light bleeding through the roof windows. The sparkle danced across his eyes. He glanced around—no one was watching. Then his hand dipped into the treasure, fingers curling like the claw of an old arcade machine. A handful of wealth vanished into the inner lining of his long black coat.

  He paused, considered taking another handful for his outer pocket, then thought better of it. Too obvious. Someone might notice. But not Viktor—not today. Viktor’s thoughts were elsewhere, lost in blood trails and the fear of a missing son. Del figured it was the perfect opportunity. After all, grief blurred the details. And Del was always watching for cracks to slip through.

  He approached Viktor with the sack—lighter now by a margin of greed, holding it out with the dutiful posture of a hound retrieving its master’s kill.

  “Didn’t find Mikal, boss,” Del said smoothly. “But found this.”

  Viktor snatched it without looking, eyes still locked on the stained floor. Still listening to the silence where his son should have been. Del turned and walked away, back toward the machinery, the grin widening on his face until it stretched into something unnatural—jackal-like.

  He had fed. And like any scavenger, he had stolen from the lion while its back was turned.