26-03-2025, 07:53 PM
Anton didn’t know. That was the best part. He walked into the dimly lit bar, the air thick with the scent of cheap vodka and cigarette smoke, expecting nothing more than a casual conversation. Scarlet—Marie Prikrylov, as far as he knew—sat at a quiet booth in the corner, one long leg crossed over the other, her crimson dress catching the light just enough to remind him who he was dealing with.
She smiled when she saw him, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that put people at ease.
“Anton,” she purred, gesturing for him to sit. “You’re late.”
He chuckled nervously, sliding into the booth. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”
Scarlet tilted her head, her fingers drumming lightly against the glass of untouched vodka in front of her. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”
For a few minutes, it was just small talk. A few questions about business, about mutual contacts, about the latest crackdown by the Commissariat. Anton, poor Anton, thought she was feeling him out for a job. Maybe even trying to get dirt on someone else. He relaxed, leaned back in his seat.
Then she dropped it. “You know, the funniest thing happened the other day. I was sitting in a very uncomfortable metal chair, drinking truly atrocious tea, being questioned by the Commissariat. And, Anton, do you know what’s really interesting about that?”
Anton went rigid, but he recovered quickly. “That is interesting,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “What were you doing in a Commissariat office?”
Scarlet leaned in, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “That’s what I’d like to know. Because, you see, they didn’t have anything on me. Not a thing. But they knew where I was, and they knew just enough to think I might be worth a conversation. Which means, my dear Anton, that someone talked.”
Anton swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “You think it was me?”
Scarlet let the silence settle between them. She let him stew in it, his mind racing. Then she smiled again, softer this time. “No. Not at first. I thought maybe it was someone else. But the thing is, Anton, I checked. And then I checked again. And wouldn’t you know it, every trail led right back to you.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice cracked.
Scarlet sighed, reaching into the small clutch bag beside her. She placed a small stack of documents on the table, fanned them out. Different passports, different names, different identities. Some had her face, some didn’t. Anton’s eyes darted over them, his breathing uneven.
“This,” she said, gesturing to the documents, “is why I’m not mad. Just disappointed. Because, you see, I have options. Marie Prikrylov? Burned and forgotten. I’ll miss her. She had good taste. But she was always disposable.” Scarlet slid a glossy, forged ID toward him, tapping a manicured nail against the name. The identity card was of the finest quality as if straight from the government's printing presses. “I’ll be someone else by tomorrow. And you?” Her voice turned razor-sharp. “Well, Anton, you will be nobody.”
His hands trembled. “Please, I didn’t mean to—”
Scarlet cut him off with a laugh, shaking her head. “You know, when I was a teenager, my mother caught me sneaking back into the house in the middle of the night. I made up some ridiculous story about needing to help out a friend, being stranded, never mind that I was clearly dressed for some school party. She listened. She nodded. And then she told me something I’ve never forgotten.” She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “She said, ‘If you’re going to lie, make sure it’s a lie worth believing.’”
Anton let out a shuddering breath. “Marie, please—”
“Oh, Anton.” She sighed, almost fondly. “You should have lied better.”
She didn’t pull the trigger. That was never her style. But the two men standing by the bar—men Anton hadn’t even noticed when he walked in—moved at her slightest nod. They lifted him from his seat, dragging him toward the back exit. Scarlet smoothed her dress, adjusted her cuffs and down the vodka with an expert toss of her wrist before lighting a cigarette. Not a single person in the bar had as much reacted to Anton being taken out of the back; not like the first time people in Legionary Kundrati saw such things. A message needed to be sent. She would make sure it was received.
She smiled when she saw him, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that put people at ease.
“Anton,” she purred, gesturing for him to sit. “You’re late.”
He chuckled nervously, sliding into the booth. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”
Scarlet tilted her head, her fingers drumming lightly against the glass of untouched vodka in front of her. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”
For a few minutes, it was just small talk. A few questions about business, about mutual contacts, about the latest crackdown by the Commissariat. Anton, poor Anton, thought she was feeling him out for a job. Maybe even trying to get dirt on someone else. He relaxed, leaned back in his seat.
Then she dropped it. “You know, the funniest thing happened the other day. I was sitting in a very uncomfortable metal chair, drinking truly atrocious tea, being questioned by the Commissariat. And, Anton, do you know what’s really interesting about that?”
Anton went rigid, but he recovered quickly. “That is interesting,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “What were you doing in a Commissariat office?”
Scarlet leaned in, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “That’s what I’d like to know. Because, you see, they didn’t have anything on me. Not a thing. But they knew where I was, and they knew just enough to think I might be worth a conversation. Which means, my dear Anton, that someone talked.”
Anton swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “You think it was me?”
Scarlet let the silence settle between them. She let him stew in it, his mind racing. Then she smiled again, softer this time. “No. Not at first. I thought maybe it was someone else. But the thing is, Anton, I checked. And then I checked again. And wouldn’t you know it, every trail led right back to you.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice cracked.
Scarlet sighed, reaching into the small clutch bag beside her. She placed a small stack of documents on the table, fanned them out. Different passports, different names, different identities. Some had her face, some didn’t. Anton’s eyes darted over them, his breathing uneven.
“This,” she said, gesturing to the documents, “is why I’m not mad. Just disappointed. Because, you see, I have options. Marie Prikrylov? Burned and forgotten. I’ll miss her. She had good taste. But she was always disposable.” Scarlet slid a glossy, forged ID toward him, tapping a manicured nail against the name. The identity card was of the finest quality as if straight from the government's printing presses. “I’ll be someone else by tomorrow. And you?” Her voice turned razor-sharp. “Well, Anton, you will be nobody.”
His hands trembled. “Please, I didn’t mean to—”
Scarlet cut him off with a laugh, shaking her head. “You know, when I was a teenager, my mother caught me sneaking back into the house in the middle of the night. I made up some ridiculous story about needing to help out a friend, being stranded, never mind that I was clearly dressed for some school party. She listened. She nodded. And then she told me something I’ve never forgotten.” She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “She said, ‘If you’re going to lie, make sure it’s a lie worth believing.’”
Anton let out a shuddering breath. “Marie, please—”
“Oh, Anton.” She sighed, almost fondly. “You should have lied better.”
She didn’t pull the trigger. That was never her style. But the two men standing by the bar—men Anton hadn’t even noticed when he walked in—moved at her slightest nod. They lifted him from his seat, dragging him toward the back exit. Scarlet smoothed her dress, adjusted her cuffs and down the vodka with an expert toss of her wrist before lighting a cigarette. Not a single person in the bar had as much reacted to Anton being taken out of the back; not like the first time people in Legionary Kundrati saw such things. A message needed to be sent. She would make sure it was received.