Night had draped its cloak over the city.
The café was nearly empty, save for the clinking of spoons and the faint hum of music.
He arrived first.
Ordered his usual—but didn't drink it.
Ruba walked in without surprise.
As if she already knew he'd be there.
She approached calmly and sat across from him.
—"I thought you wouldn't come back."
She said it with a short smile—one without warmth.
He replied without a smile:
—"I never return… unless I never truly left."
Silence passed.
He studied her features, the small details—any nervous movement that might betray something.
But she was calm. Too calm.
In a low voice, he asked:
—"That gray book… what's its story?"
Ruba didn't hesitate:
—"It was my uncle's. He gave it to me about two years ago.
I didn't open it for a long time… then suddenly, I felt an odd urge to read it."
He stared at her.
Then asked:
—"And did you understand anything?"
She shook her head:
—"Not really. Bits and pieces… like a dream. Or a memory.
But it confuses me sometimes."
He pulled a photo from his pocket—old, grayscale, of a man in his fifties with a heavy gaze.
—"Is this your uncle?"
She hesitated, then nodded:
—"Yes. He didn't talk much about his work.
But my mother used to say he carried things in his head no one could understand."
—"And you? Do you feel like you carry something from him?"
She gave a half-bitter smile:
—"Sometimes… I feel like I'm searching for something I don't even know.
And sometimes, I feel like he's watching me… from somewhere far."
The look they exchanged wasn't casual.
It wasn't between strangers, but between two people who knew this conversation was deeper than books and coffee.
Finally, he said:
—"If you ever feel that book starting to change you…
Burn it."
She answered without fear:
—"And you? What changed you?"
He smiled at last. A small, bitter smile:
—"Questions."
She stood slowly.
Placed her hand over the book inside her bag, but didn't take it out.
She said:
—"I don't know who you are.
But if you're looking for something inside me…
You won't find it easily."
And walked away.
He remained seated.
The book wasn't handed over.
But something else passed silently between them.
It wasn't an official report…
But it was the clearest sign yet that things were now beyond protocol.
---
Night was still—as if the city was holding its breath for something unnamed.
The street was dim, and the café Ruba left was the last point of light in a narrow alley.
Agent 707 followed with calculated steps, a cold piece of metal in his coat—not a gun, but a threat nonetheless.
He had no more time.
No order had come from above, but he knew the system well:
When it goes quiet, it means one thing—"Act before we command you."
As Ruba reached the sharp corner between the main road and the side alley, she suddenly stopped.
There was a shadow behind her.
She didn't turn right away. Instead, she said calmly:
—"You again."
His voice came from behind—steady, but cold:
—"Ruba, this time I'm not here to talk.
This time… you're coming with me."
She turned slowly to face him.
His eyes were different now—not those that watched her from afar.
Now they carried something else… decision.
—"I'm not afraid," she said firmly.
He replied without blinking:
—"You should be."
He motioned with his hand—toward a narrow path leading to a dark parking lot.
—"You have two options: walk quietly… or I drag you. And you won't like the second."
Ruba let out a quiet gasp but didn't move.
She didn't scream. She didn't run.
She took a step forward—almost as if surrendering.
Then…
From a distance, a loud whistle tore through the silence.
Both of them froze.
It came again—closer this time.
Followed by the shouting of police officers running:
—"You! Stop right there! Drop the knife!"
The street exploded into chaos.
Police chasing an armed thief—completely unrelated.
But it was salvation.
In that brief moment, Ruba used the confusion—ran fast, crossed the street, and disappeared between cars.
She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to run.
707 tried to follow, but the police were closing in.
He had no choice but to fall back—blend into the shadows—pretend to be a frightened bystander.
Minutes passed like blades.
Ruba was gone.
Out of sight—just like his composure.
And then it hit him:
Ruba's escape wasn't skill.
It was chance.
And in his world…
Chance is unforgivable.