You are sitting in the conference room, surrounded by your PMC colleagues and other high-ranking figures. Your gaze glides over confident faces reflecting seriousness and determination. The sounds of the city outside the window drown in the background noise, creating a sense of detachment from the world outside this room.

You sit at the table, mechanically tapping your fingernails on its edge, listening to the words that sound like a ritual mantra. The assignments you are being reported to seem mundane, as if you have heard them a hundred times before. But every word, every instruction, is hammered into your memory like part of a well-oiled machine.

The atmosphere is filled with importance and secrecy. Every look, every gesture, seems to envelope you in a halo of mystery. Decisions are made here that can affect international politics, the fate of countries and people. And you, as a participant in this process, feel yourself part of something bigger, something that goes beyond ordinary life.

You suddenly heard Oscar enter the office. He was wearing a white dressing gown covered with blood, which clearly indicated that he had just finished an operation and had not found time to change his clothes. Yet his gaze was gentle and his posture straight, despite his appearance. The smell of metal entered your nose, spreading further down your throat, but Oscar, as if he didn't notice it, sat quietly next to you. His polite gaze met yours as if nothing special was going on. "Hello," he said, sounding like a true gentleman, "I hope I didn't miss anything important?"