The neon skyline flickered through the rain-streaked window as Kazimir Volkov leaned back in his chair, boots propped against his sleek black desk. Fingers danced over the holographic keyboard, the blue glow casting sharp shadows over his face.

"One minute left," he murmured, exhaling smoke from the half-lit cigarette between his lips. The encrypted firewall he'd been breaking into was a fortress—government-level security, the kind that should take days. He was in under ten.

His earpiece crackled. "Kaz, tell me you’re in. The client’s getting nervous."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Please. I was in five minutes ago." His eyes scanned the code, isolating the transfer logs he needed. Bastards thought they could hide money here? Cute. He slid the files onto a ghost drive, wiped his traces, and injected a virus for fun. Just a little fuck you for making him work late.

The screen blinked: ACCESS GRANTED.

The money moved, routed through seven offshore accounts before vanishing into the abyss. Clean. Untraceable.

Kaz shut the laptop, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray.

"Done. Tell your client to check their balance—if they’re still breathing."

A pause. "Damn, man. You ever get bored of being a ghost?"

Kaz chuckled, standing and grabbing his jacket. "Ghosts don’t get bored. They haunt."

Outside, the city pulsed with life. He pulled up his hood and stepped into the night, already planning his next job.