The fresh batch of Hitachi processors pressed against Azamat's calf through his messenger bag—a weighty reminder of both promise and peril. He nudged the bag with his foot, tucking it closer under the cheap plastic chair. Above, fluorescent tubes flickered, casting the institutional green tiles and worn linoleum in a sickly light that bleached the colour from his kotlety. The mushroom sauce pooled, a pallid swamp surrounding tepid mashed potatoes.

  Outside, Moscow's autumn rain lashed the tall windows of the Stolovaya “Druzhba”. His dark wool coat—a recent acquisition from a Gorbushka vendor settling a debt—lay slumped over the adjacent chair, dripping steadily onto the floor.

  “Pointless,” Azamat muttered, fork scraping the plate as it pierced the grey, overcooked meat. It crumbled without protest.

  His teeth worked mechanically, mind elsewhere. These weren't just components; they were lifelines. With grain shortages dominating headlines, Acron's failing agrochemical systems propelled fertilizer production to a national security priority. The processors in his bag held enough computing power to resurrect an entire industrial control system. A flicker of satisfaction touched his lips as he scooped up more potato.

  Supplier names and circled part numbers littered his open notebook—the ToAZ representative's details recently added, another desperate buyer. Profits would fund his sister's medical tuition first, the remainder channelled into Project Chimera. Dima needed specialized capacitors; perhaps that Lithuanian contact with Baltic surplus connections…

  He glanced up. A man stood opposite, tray balanced. Something about him felt meticulously assembled from Moscow's most average features—ubiquitous yet unplaceable, like a face half-recalled from a crowded Metro carriage.

  “Mind if I join? The dessert rush is starting.” The man indicated the filling tables with a slight tilt of his head.

  Azamat nodded curtly, sliding his messenger bag tighter against his chair leg. The stranger placed his tray down with the care of a man accustomed to scrutiny—borscht steaming gently, a single scoop of smetana perched square in the middle, black bread cut into immaculate rectangles. A Vostok watch, showing just enough wear, peeked from beneath his cuff. His coat defied the usual Moscow taxonomy—neither bargain-bin nor outlandishly pricey. Even his haircut resisted classification, offering only the sort of ordinary neatness that repelled memory

  “Oleg,” the man offered, extending a hand.

  “Azamat.” He shook it briefly. The grip was firm, the skin neither calloused from labour nor soft from privilege. Azamat registered incongruously clean fingernails, almost manicured, on hands that otherwise looked capable of handling tools. He returned to his cooling meal.

  “Good choice,” Oleg commented, nodding at Azamat's plate. “Though I'm partial to the classics myself.” He gestured to his borscht with a half-smile that revealed nothing. A faint scent, subtle, Western, not canteen soap or cheap cologne, drifted across the table and vanished.

  Azamat focused on his calculations, keeping the stranger in his peripheral vision. Perfect averages, his electrical engineering degree taught him, rarely occurred naturally. Oleg broke his bread methodically, tearing equal pieces before dipping one into his soup.

  “Funny how they save electricity,” Oleg noted, gesturing toward the ceiling with his spoon. “Third light in every row burnt out. A bit of geometrical rationing.”

  Indeed. Every third tube dark, casting repeating pools of shadow. Near the windows, factory workers hunched over their soup, steam rising from the bowls. A tray clattered loudly from the serving line, making a few heads turn.

  “Galina Mikhailovna at the till is faster than any calculator,” Azamat replied, glancing toward the cashier polishing an ancient OKA register. “Twenty-three years she's been there. Knew my total before I reached her.”

  “Soviet training,” Oleg agreed smoothly. “Mental arithmetic was a state priority.” He took a spoonful of borscht. “Rediscovered this place recently. Good food, honest prices. Rare these days.”

  Azamat recognized the regulars; Oleg wasn't one.

  “Markets are changing,” Oleg remarked, stirring his soup, the spoon scraping faintly against the bowl. “Gorbushka isn't what it was. More… observers lately, wouldn't you say?”

  The pencil in Azamat's hand stilled. A chill awareness prickled his skin. He mentally reviewed recent transactions, the processors suddenly feeling heavier against his leg. Forcing his shoulders to relax, his jaw unclenched. Despite this, the numbers in his notebook remained slightly blurred.

  “FSB?” Azamat kept his tone light, conversational, despite the sudden dryness in his mouth. “You spot them by the identical leather jackets—same ones at minus forty in January as plus thirty-eight in August. Back in Bishkek, we at least admitted the weather was trying to kill us.”

  He managed a small, calculated chuckle.

  Oleg leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “The uniforms are amateurs. They sent three to Gorbushka last month. One asked if a motherboard was ‘the big green thing with the batteries.’”

  Azamat matched the laugh, a carefully measured response. “Last year, I watched two confiscate a box of VGA cables. Convinced they were ‘network infiltration tools.’ ” His hands mimicked writing on an evidence tag. “‘Dangerous American technology.’”

  Genuine laughter crinkled the corners of Oleg's eyes. Azamat filed the reaction away.

  “Their technical division must recruit from the traffic police,” Oleg said, breaking more bread. “My cousin works IT support for some ministry. Says they still think SCSI is an American spy agency.”

  A smile spread across Azamat's face, feeling more open than intended. “The truly dangerous ones aren't in uniform anyway,” he added, letting his guard down another fraction. “It's the ones you never notice.”

  Oleg nodded, his expression sobering. “Speaking of dangers… Nichicon prices are criminal. Three times what they were before that Osaka factory fire.”

  The abrupt shift to components felt deliberate, a test. Technical curiosity momentarily overrode caution. “You track capacitor markets?”

  “Had a client needing twenty F-series electrolytics. Nearly collapsed when I saw the invoice.” Oleg mimed shielding his face. “Still see the numbers when I close my eyes.”

  “Same thing almost shut down the Rubin TV factory,” Azamat found himself warming to the topic. “Their purchasing manager was desperate. Sourced Hongda caps from Hong Kong—not ideal, but they worked.”

  “Hongda?” Oleg winced theatrically. “Brave man.”

  “Tested each batch, naturally. Lower ripple tolerance but acceptable ESR.” Resisting the urge to sketch on his napkin, he continued, “Had to modify the power stage filtering, add a couple of bypass caps.”

  Oleg nodded slowly, studying Azamat's face. “Smart. Had to do something similar with a Teapo substitution for a medical equipment client once.”

  “Filtration must have been a nightmare.”

  “Three extra smoothing caps, redesigned ground plane.” Oleg shook his head. “Still half the price of the Nichicons.”

  The shared language of scarcity and improvisation. Recognition sparked. For a moment, they were simply two men navigating the same treacherous market.

  “Moscow electronics,” Azamat sighed. “Where we all become experts in compromise.”

  “And creative accounting,” Oleg added with a knowing smile. Their shared laugh felt unexpectedly honest.

  Abandoning his half-eaten kotleta, Azamat leaned forward. “You know what's truly mad? The American audiophile market.”

  He watched Oleg's attentive posture, the shared technical ground making him bolder.

  “My supplier—Mikhail Petrovich, eighty-two years old, spent forty years at the Svetlana factory—salvages old Sovtek tubes from decommissioned military gear.” Azamat sketched a quick cylindrical shape in the air. “Americans shell out three hundred dollars for a matched pair of what we churned out by the million.”

  “What makes them so special?” Oleg asked, his gaze steady.

  “That's the beautiful absurdity!” Excitement lit Azamat's eyes. “They praise the ‘warm, vintage sound signature’—what they're really hearing is Soviet manufacturing inconsistencies!” His knuckles rapped the table twice. “Mikhail tests each one on salvaged military oscilloscopes. The more irregular the harmonic distortion, the higher the price. He marks the worst offenders ‘American Special Edition.’”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  His fingers danced, mapping out invisible circuits. “Svetlana never matched Philips for vacuum consistency. Cathode coating varied based on materials available that month. They substituted nickel for rhodium in the plate coating when supplies ran short.” Shaking his head, he grinned. “They imagine some mystical Soviet engineering secret, when really, it was just us improvising to meet the plan.”

  Oleg laughed, a genuine sound this time. “So they pay a premium for our manufacturing defects?”

  “Exactly! The ultimate irony—tubes designed for missile guidance systems, where reliability meant survival, are now valued for their flaws.”

  The shared amusement felt good, dissolving some of Azamat's ingrained suspicion. Oleg leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Your supply lines must be impressive. Those Hongda caps—rare finds.”

  Pride warmed Azamat. Someone who understood the intricacies of sourcing. “My uncle handles quality control in Shenzhen,” he murmured, lowering his own voice. “There are always ways around the official channels.”

  “Shenzhen?” Oleg whistled softly. “Direct access. Clever.”

  The compliment loosened something in Azamat. “The real skill lies beyond physical components,” he said, tapping his fork. “Knowing what to offer in trade.”

  “Trade?” Oleg's expression remained neutral, gaze firmed.

  “Digital for physical. The perfect exchange rate.”

  “Explain.”

  “Everyone has something of value,” Azamat replied, watching Oleg. “Some university connections create it through… unconventional means.”

  Oleg shifted forward, radiating subtle intensity. “Such as?”

  Knowing he revealed too much, Azamat considered controlled disclosure. “Western tech companies crave certain information,” he stated, keeping his tone casual. “Software vulnerabilities command high prices.”

  Oleg's eyebrows twitched. “And that translates to components?”

  “Money is universal,” Azamat shrugged. “But direct exchanges often work better. Knowledge for hardware.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “Flows both ways.” Azamat glanced toward the window. “Moscow runs on favours more than money.”

  Oleg nodded, fingers drumming once. “Your university contacts must be invaluable.”

  “Fiztek taught creative thinking,” pride crept into Azamat's voice.

  “And customs?” Oleg's tone stayed light.

  With a quiet alertness, Azamat met his gaze. “Import regulations are complex,” he answered carefully. “Understanding systems is what engineers do.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  “Not simple. Just…” Azamat paused. “Strategic problem-solving.”

  Oleg smiled like a chess player spotting an advantage. “Information as currency. Very modern.”

  The tone triggered a belated alarm. The easy rapport had lured him onto dangerous ground. “Just small-scale trading,” Azamat backtracked, forcing casualness. “Nothing noteworthy.”

  “I disagree,” Oleg replied softly, his gaze holding Azamat's. “Moscow's technical networks fascinate me. Yours are clearly effective.” He paused. “Effective enough to support ambitious projects, perhaps?”

  Azamat gave a noncommittal nod. Nothing specific revealed, but perhaps too much strategic geography exposed.

  “More tea?” Oleg gestured toward the corner samovar.

  “No,” Azamat straightened. “Suppliers await.”

  Staff emerged from the kitchen with grey rags and metal buckets. A woman in a faded blue uniform began wiping tables with broad, efficient strokes. The cashier switched off the ancient samovar behind the counter with a decisive click.

  “Fifteen minutes to closing,” she announced without looking up.

  Oleg checked his watch. “Time flies. Shame—just got a line on some Z80-compatible memory controllers. Military surplus.”

  Azamat's fork froze mid-air. The abandoned kotleta seemed suddenly irrelevant. “Memory controllers?” His voice remained steady, but his fingers tightened around the fork.

  “Mm-hmm. Integrated DRAM refresh logic.” Oleg dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “From the Mayak decommissioning. Original packaging.”

  The cleaning woman's rag squeaked on the table nearby, the ammonia smell momentarily overpowering. Azamat carefully aligned his notebook with the table's edge. The processors in his bag seemed to gain presence at the mention of compatible components.

  The overhead lights flickered—first warning for closing time.

  The cashier approached, collecting empty plates. “Oleg Nikolaevich,” warmth softened her usually stern features as she looked at Oleg. “You brought company today.”

  “Galina Mikhailovna,” Oleg nodded respectfully. “Moscow's finest borscht, as always.”

  “Flattery won't earn you extra kompot,” she retorted, though her eyes crinkled at the corners. “But come back Thursday, the pirozhki might find their way to your tray.”

  Azamat watched the exchange intently. Oleg Nikolaevich. Galina treated him with the easy familiarity reserved for regulars, a stark contrast to his claim of just rediscovering the place. A slip? Or a deliberate piece of theatre? The inconsistency snagged Azamat's attention, yet paradoxically eased some of his concern. An FSB agent cultivating genuine canteen connections seemed unlikely. Perhaps Oleg was simply a careful operator.

  “Your friend recognizes quality,” Galina told Azamat, deftly stacking plates. “Unlike those ‘New Russians’ with their McDonald's takeaway.” She shuffled away toward the kitchen, grumbling about proper nutrition.

  “You said you only just found this place again?” Azamat asked, studying Oleg's neutral expression.

  “Rediscovered it,” Oleg clarified smoothly. “My father used to bring me here when I was a boy, working at the factory nearby. Came past last month, and the memory clicked.” He extracted a pen—a Pilot Custom Grandee, Azamat noted—and snatched a clean napkin. “We should exchange coordinates,” he said, inscribing a number. “For future trade inquiries.”

  The napkin slid across. Seven digits in tight angular numerals.

  “Old-school,” Oleg explained, tapping the napkin. “No digital trail.”

  Azamat snapped a page from his notebook, scrawled his number, and slid it across. A silent acknowledgement of grey market rules.

  “Analogue security,” Azamat agreed. “Pencil marks can't be hacked.”

  Oleg carefully folded the note and slipped it into an inner pocket. Another subtle signal—keeping contacts separate from wallet and identification.

  “Those memory controllers,” Azamat asked, modulating his enthusiasm carefully. “From Mayak, you said. When?”

  “Expected in three days,” Oleg replied. “Small batch, but clean provenance.”

  Clean provenance—market shorthand for items without military tracking, safe for resale.

  Rising, Oleg collected his coat from the chair. “Call me after nine. Ordinary clients get banker's hours; The interesting ones merit night shift.”

  The phrasing felt like an acknowledgement, placing Azamat not as a mere customer, but as a peer navigating Moscow's trade currents. Clandestine without theatrical excess. Azamat pocketed the napkin.

  The stolovaya doors pushed outward with a blast of warm, cabbage-scented air. Moscow's night hit Azamat, the temperature plummeting. He shifted his messenger bag from his hip to lower back, keeping the processors close.

  “Looks like snow,” Oleg remarked, scanning the clouds. His breath formed dense white plumes that dissipated slowly in the still air.

  “Your number,” Azamat said, touching his pocket. “I'll call. About those controllers.”

  “Good,” Oleg replied, his voice neutral again. “Though perhaps not from your primary mobile. Network congestion seems particularly bad lately.” A subtle warning? Or simple observation?

  “I know someone at Vympelcom,” Azamat ventured, testing the waters of reciprocity. “Might be able to look into your connection issues. The new towers near Kiyevskaya offer better coverage.”

  Oleg dipped his chin once. “Useful. Contacts in telecoms matter more than ever.”

  A large salt truck rumbled past, its orange warning lights casting bizarre shadows across Oleg's face, momentarily revealing something hard and calculating in his eyes before his neutral mask settled back into place. Azamat gripped the strap of his bag tighter.

  “Which way are you headed?” Oleg asked casually.

  “Metro,” Azamat replied, deliberately vague. “And you?”

  “My car.” Oleg gestured vaguely toward the rank of parked vehicles. Guarding information by instinct. A good sign. Cautious suppliers frequently proved to be reliable suppliers.

  “Those Mayak controllers,” Azamat pressed gently. “If they're compatible with the HD64180 architecture, I might need more than just a few.”

  “I suspected as much.” Oleg's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “You have a project.”

  The statement hung there. A well worn information dance. “Industrial control systems,” Azamat shrugged. “Fertilizer plants need reliable processors for SCADA. American equipment fails. Planned obsolescence.”

  Oleg’s eyes flickered. “Acron? Or maybe ToAZ?” The accuracy of the guess unsettled Azamat. “You know the market.”

  “Understanding client needs is the core of my business.” Oleg adjusted his scarf. “Just like understanding the needs of projects discussed on, say, relcom.comp.sys.pentagon.”

  Azamat's fingers locked onto the strap. He kept his expression blank. Intrigue warred with suspicion. The public reply to Dima's plea for help. Nothing secret. But Oleg connecting it to him, here, now…

  “Just a hobby,” Azamat said, attempting a dismissive flick of his hand. “Nostalgia.”

  “Indeed.” Oleg nodded slowly. “Though your specific questions about memory banking schemes suggested something more ambitious than simple reminiscence.” He paused, letting the implication settle. “The electronics community here runs smaller than most realize. I supply components to several people you might know. Irina Petrova's projects, for instance, often require very specific, hard-to-find parts.”

  Irina's name solidified Azamat's assessment. This wasn't chance. Oleg had sought him out. But was he merely a thorough, well-connected broker, or something else entirely?

  “Irina is brilliant,” Azamat said carefully. “I wasn't aware her network stretched beyond the usual Gorbushka circles.”

  “Moscow evolves,” Oleg replied smoothly. “Old markets splinter, new connections emerge. Success favours those who grasp both the technical and human networks.”

  Azamat nodded, filing away the phrasing, the connections, Oleg's unnerving blend of technical knowledge and market awareness. A supplier with access to military surplus and intimate knowledge of the Pentagon community—potentially invaluable, potentially lethal.

  “The Metro will be mobbed soon,” Azamat said, stepping back toward the station entrance.

  “Of course.” Oleg thrust out his hand. “Until next time.”

  A brief, firm handshake. All business. A middleman's grip. Neither too rough nor too smooth. Azamat watched Oleg's measured steps toward the parked cars before turning away.

  The Metro station entrance beckoned, warm yellow light spilling onto the pavement. Memory controllers. They could be the key to delivering the V3 Ultra prototype. If Oleg delivered… How to present this to Dima and Irina? Tangled webs of chance encounters sometimes delivered exactly what you needed.

  He ducked into a Leningradsky Prospekt payphone booth as the rain started to fall. His breath fogged the scratched plexiglass as he fed coins into the slot, his fingers still holding a residual warmth from the stolovaya. Dmitri Petrovich's number—his most reliable source for Western microprocessors—came automatically, almost hardwired.

  The line clicked twice. Then, instead of Dmitri's familiar gruff voice, a flat, mechanical tone: “Набранный вами номер не обслуживается.”

  The number you have dialled is not in service.

  Azamat pressed the receiver hard against his ear, the cold plastic biting into his skin, as if sheer pressure could force the connection through. He slammed the receiver down, dialled again, punching the numbers with deliberate force.

  The robotic voice repeated its indifferent verdict.

  The handset returned to its cradle, a slight tremour imparted by his hand. Satisfaction evaporated. Consistency defined Dmitri's reputation in Moscow's volatile tech scene.

  Rain mixed with snow streaked the glass. Pedestrians hurried past, heads bowed. Azamat stared at the phone, its dead tone echoing the sudden hollowness opening in his chest. Oleg's number seared in his pocket. The Hitachi processors against his back suddenly felt like a target.