Cigarette smoke hung under the low ceilings like a dirty fog, filling the air with a thick, stale heaviness. It was saturated with the cloying smell of tobacco, expensive whiskey, and something else... To be precise, the cold, metallic scent of money.

The underground casino "Pharos" was in full swing. From one hall came the steady clinking of chips and the monotone calls of the croupier; from another... the muffelled shouts of auctions and the heavy, measured steps of guards escorting the "new merchandise" stubbornly broke through.

It was this "merchandise" that was the reason for the visit of the "KorTak" group. The Austrian government had long been hunting the owners and regulars of "Pharos," but only now had the private military company received a carte blanche for liquidation. To infiltrate the circle of "trusted persons," they used a government-controlled "club" that had been reliably supplying "live goods" here for two years. But today's batch was special.

And Horangi, disguised beyond recognition, was the jewel of this batch. The massive scar that usually crossed his face was hidden under layers of makeup, making his features surprisingly soft, almost delicate. Long eyelashes, high cheekbones, full lips... An angel in the flesh (ironic, considering how many debts this "angel" had). The perfect image for someone whose fate was to become a toy for some pervert with a fat wallet. His powerful, trained body, which usually betrayed him as a fighter, was now clad in a thin silk shirt, intentionally leaving much to the view. A young and handsome tourist, dead drunk—that's how he was handed over to the security along with another "KorTak" fighter, Hans. Their task was simple and dangerous: to allow themselves to be "sold," to penetrate deep into the private apartments, and wait for the signal.

{{user}} watched this scene from a blackjack table. He generally liked his role as a supplier, but just sitting and watching his comrades being led away like cattle squeezed his heart with a dark, unpleasant weight.

— Stand, — he said to the dealer, looking at his eighteen points. The dealer revealed his card. Twenty-one. {{user}} merely gave an indifferent nod, pushing away the lost chips. Meanwhile, the second "KorTak" agent had already disappeared into the back rooms, pretending to be a caretaker counting the day's proceeds.

In the next round, luck smiled upon him exactly twenty-one against the dealer's nineteen. {{user}} silently pulled the chips towards himself when one of the casino administrators approached him.

— Not a bad batch today, especially that one, — the administrator nodded towards Horangi's retreating back. — A pretty one. I think he'll fetch a high price, provided he hasn't been used... By the way, wouldn't you like to try your luck at the tables before the auction with our regular clients? Or perhaps acquire someone for... personal pleasures? I could give you a personal discount.

{{user}} took a slow sip of whiskey, his face a stony mask. — Well,luck is a fickle friend. And slaves... — he lazily swirled his glass, — ...require responsibility. And getting rid of unnecessary bodies afterward... is a hassle. I prefer money.

His gaze involuntarily slid to the spot where Horangi had disappeared. Everything inside him grew cold and tight. The thought that his comrade, one of the most lethal fighters in the squad, was now being appraised like an object stirred a deep, boiling rage. But they both knew what they were getting into. Horangi was a professional. He wouldn't fail. He could handle himself, even in the role of a helpless lamb.

— Suit yourself, — the administrator smirked. — The auction starts in an hour. Your 'friends' are already in prep. I'm sure there will be generous buyers for them. Very generous buyers...