I walk toward a grocery store two blocks from a tram line. I go in, take a basket, and move through the aisles for bread and bottled water. A packet of tea I don’t need. I stand in line and watch the door through the reflection in the freezer glass.
No one comes in twice. No one waits outside. No one studies me longer than it takes to be polite.
I pay in cash.
Outside, I step back into the street and pause at the corner. I let three cars pass. A couple argues about directions. A man jogs by with headphones in, breath fogging in the cold. Nothing repeats. No engine idles too long. No face returns.
I walk.
Two more turns. A narrow side street with older buildings and dark windows. I slow at one doorway and tie my shoe, using the glass to check behind me. A woman hurries past. A delivery van blocks half the road and then pulls away.
Still nothing. That’s when I let myself breathe.
I don’t go home. I go somewhere I haven’t been in years.
The storefront is small and dim, the sign half burned out. The repair shop fixes laptops, printers, and old phones.
Andrei looks up from behind the counter. He’s older, thinner. His eyes haven’t changed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“I know.”
He studies my face, then the way I’m standing.
“Back room,” he says.
I don’t take the memory card out until the door is closed behind us. When I do, it looks harmless. A black sliver resting in my palm.
He doesn’t touch it yet.
“How many?” he asks.
“Two,” I say. “Split.”
He nods once and turns to a machine that isn’t connected to anything. I watch his hands as he works. He doesn’t open the files. He doesn’t ask what they are. When it’s done, he slides the original toward me.
“Check.”
I plug each new card into a second machine and open them myself. The structure matches. The partial extracts load without errors. The sections are intact. I run a quick verification. Then I snap the original card in half and drop the pieces into his metal bin.
He doesn’t react.
I delete the temporary copy from his system and watch the drive wipe.
I split them the way I planned. One card goes back into the lined pocket under my jacket. The second slides into the hollow seam of my bag, sewn months ago for something I hoped I’d never need.
“If anyone asks,” I say, “you never saw me.”
He almost smiles.
“They always ask,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I answer.”
I stop in front of a building that looks like it was built to make people relax. It has glass doors, pale stone walls, and a brass plaque by the entrance.
Inside, I give the name Dominik told me to use. Ana Sokolova. Married. Healthcare investments. I keep my voice steady and say I have documents tied to procurement frauds.
I don’t rush.
