The Celestial Logistic

BY sobornova logate

Skygate S and Logate G

Cathedral logic Sobornova Moscow Rus

Satirical Roman 2026

Tg English: https://t.me/heli_loader

Tg Russian: https://t.me/heli_asia

Видео Анонс

Chapter 2. A Stash in a Flash

I am a chocolate bunny, I am a tender Narcisse...

— Pierre Narcisse song

Misha sat in front of a bulky, convex CRT monitor that flickered in the semi twilight of the room, positioned behind yellow curtains with brown stripes.

His friend Nikita sat on the couch nearby, lazily flipping through a car magazine while sipping tea. In this room, they shared everything: thoughts, a humble lifestyle, and plans for the future. Visually, they were cut from the same cloth: both light haired, so people easily mistook them for siblings.

Nikita set his magazine down on the table and suddenly said,

— You need to buy a bed.

Startled, Misha looked up from the screen.

— So that the girls you bring over here know right away what they came for, — Nikita explained his line of thinking.

Nikita reached for the mouse and clicked a couple of times, opening a folder on the screen. — Mind if I look?

— Go ahead, — Misha replied.

Nikita opened a folder full of photos. The caption under one of them read: baba.

Another was named:

goat.

Nikita hovered the mouse over it. — Mish, you’ve completely lost it. Sex is all you think about.

The photo opened: a literal goat was chewing grass near a birch tree.

— This is… an actual photo of a goat.

Misha nodded silently.

— Can I click on the chick photo?

— Click it, — Misha replied, his lips tightening ever so slightly.

Nikita stared at the monitor. Instead of a naked girl that baba was supposed to mean in Russian, the screen showed an old babushka granny wearing a headscarf. Nikita closed the file.

— Right… I see.

The conversation shifted to rent. Property prices were skyrocketing every month. Buying a place was completely unrealistic. Every option was a dead end. There was only one way out: taking a risk.

— There’s this one thing,— Misha told Nikita.

The tabs of logistics websites were open on the screen, showing rows of available freight. Misha lazily scrolled the mouse wheel while stroking Murka the cat with his free hand. She had settled on his lap. Murka purred softly, kneading his jeans with her paws.

His brain, wired for complex algorithms, calculated that deep within the murky waters of logistics, a treasure island was looming through the fog. The urge to make money right here, right now, instead of scraping by at a research institute, was what had brought him into this business. He calculated routes for trucks. But as a Tech graduate, Misha was drawn to international logistic: cross border trade. That was where the real money changed hands.

Nikita, a humanities major, was a softy, open guy. Exactly the kind of person who wouldn't leave a friend in a ditch. When Nikita happened to get his own semi-truck by a stroke of luck, Misha immediately put it to work. Nikita agreed because he knew he could rely on Misha’s calculations. As for himself, he was into artsy stuff, still had his head in the clouds to some extent, and was writing his PhD thesis.

The screen of the Nokia button phone on the table blinked. A text message arrived from Ivan, an acquaintance who worked at the Vyborg customs. Misha quickly scanned the text. A spark flared in his eyes.

— Look at this, — Misha spun around in his chair, pointing at the parameters of a closed tender that had just been sent to him. — A direct contract from the Qzar company. Remember Kyuzar? His outfit hauls flowers. They’re offering us a job to run a reefer full of roses from Kotka to Moscow. A premium rate for urgency. Cash upon unloading. Cold, hard cash!

Nikita looked up from his magazine.

— Mish, you’ve barely done any international logistics. We’ve been sticking to domestic standards. Why roses? I’ve heard what that turns into. The ocean freight alone takes three weeks to reach the port. Then you have to grease someone's palm, get it out of the temporary storage warehouse, and once it hits our border…

— The rate here completely eclipses our usual trips, — Misha cut him off. His voice sounded confident. — We will cover all our financial holes with just one round trip. What do you care what’s in the back of the truck?

Nikita tossed the magazine aside and walked over to the desk. He leaned his hands on the back of Misha’s chair. He felt uneasy about his friend’s overconfidence. Murka gave a disgruntled meow. She jumped off Misha's lap, casting a reproachful look at the humans.

— It makes a huge difference, — Nikita said, dropping his voice out of uncertainty for their only truck. — I feel like hauling flowers is pure suicide for a logistics guy. If our cooling unit glitches on the border or out on the highway, the flowers are toast. I’ve read on the forums that roses must be hauled strictly between plus two and plus five degrees Celsius. Any warmer, and they’ll cook and bloom right inside the boxes. Any colder, and they’ll freeze. If the reefer fails us, Kyuzar will slap us with a damage bill so high we’ll have to sell the truck. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of cargo will turn into silage. Why take such a gamble?

Misha looked at the rose in a vase on the desk. He had bought it for a girl, but yesterday things blew away. He took the flower by its stem, examining the sharp thorns and the tight, subtly scented bud. He was absolutely convinced of his own exceptionality. Ordinary people made mistakes, but not him.

— You’ve got new Thermo King units, — Misha replied calmly, keeping his eyes on the rose. — Why would they glitch?

The challenge intrigued him.

— Look at the customs, for Christ's sake! — Nikita tried to explain. He didn't realize that at this moment Misha only saw the contract as the signature under his own triumph. — Flower dealers haul their goods under shady, grey schemes. Instead of premium roses, they declare some kind of buttercups or bouquet greenery just to pay lower duties. It’s standard practice. If an inspector decides to open the boxes for a customs search, the roses will just wither right at the checkpoint! The risk of getting stuck is huge, and for a live flower, a three day delay is death. A rose only lives for a matter of days.

Misha was silently doing the math in his head. His friend's anxiety didn't bother him much. The mathematical model in his mind had already constructed the perfect transit schedule for the truck from the port of Kotka to the customs office at Brusnichnoye. He had already defeated the system in his thoughts, not giving a damn that he was setting Nikita up for big trouble.

— The cargo here is special, — Misha opened the incoming file and looked closely. A photo was attached on the website. A huge, seemingly hand-drawn red heart adorned the white side of the trailer. Inside was an elegant inscription: Qzar. Order: Red roses. Premium rate.

He picked up the rose again, examining the sharp thorns and the tight, fresh, fragrant bud. Here, the romance of the gamble perfectly aligned with a beautiful image.

— I want her, — Misha said quietly, looking at the rose in his hand.

The risk was justified.

— Think someone of our people is involved?

Nikita shook his head.

— I’ve got a debt payoff hanging over me. — Misha frowned.

— Either way, we need an inside track for customs clearance, — Nikita shook his head.

— Logistics isn’t about hauling boxes. It’s a system of equations. And all with multiple variables: time, temperature, customs, and so on. Even a cat understands that hauling flowers without losses is a challenge. Here is how I see it: the delivery timing must account for everything. We need to calculate the border crossing. Take into account the customs shift changes, the peak hours. Those who haul flowers on a wing and a prayer go bust. But I will recalculate the logistics.

If we enter the checkpoint around 3 a.m., that’s the deadest peak of the night shift. The shift change is still a long way off. The inspectors are bone tired, and the traffic density drops to a minimum. They want only one thing: to coast until morning so that nobody bothers them. A sleepy inspector won't drag a reefer to the inspection bay if the paperwork is perfect. He’ll just slap the stamp on to get rid of the truck. My model calculates the transit time so that we roll up to our guys during this zombie hour. Roses are the perfect option to prove that my model works.

Misha carefully placed the rose next to the keyboard. He moved the cursor over the button, looking at Nikita with an expression that said: I won’t let you down.

Nikita gave a reluctant nod. Misha resolutely clicked: reply.

The order went into production. He didn't know yet that the flawlessness he had so beautifully constructed in his head would soon fall apart. Right when the refrigerated truck full of roses would already be flying down the Finnish highway toward the border.

At the terminal in Kotka, two cargoes were loaded into the reefer. Legally, paperwork wise, everything was going perfectly, as always with Misha. Cheap, light spray roses for a company named Romashka. But right into the very center of the reefer, Misha, using his old connections, secretly loaded another batch. Premium red buds. On paper, this contraband didn't exist. No customs duty was paid for it. A classic bait-and-switch misdeclaration. Misha wanted the roses but lacked the moral and ethical boundaries, so he decided to dump the cargo on a major buyer for cash. He wanted to clear everything in one fell swoop, taking what belonged to others, stepping onto foreign turf.

The plan was perfect until Misha logged onto the TKS forum. This online hive was essential for everyone connected to customs. In one of the threads, he spotted an acquaintance who was stationed on the Vyborg route. Misha quickly dialed his number from his Nokia button phone.

— Misha? — Ivan answered amidst a noisy buzz. — Is your truck heading to Cranberry gate? Stop the driver. Tell him to lay low on the Finnish side. There’s a massive crackdown at the checkpoint today. Internal Security raid. They are combing through everyone, hit the deck.

Misha felt a sudden ping of anxiety. Nikita is the one responsible for the cargo. Whew, at least it’s not him. But Nikita is his friend…

A felony charge for large scale failure to declare goods is no joke. The Federal Customs Service would pin all the blame for the illegal cargo on the transit organizer, Nikita. That meant real jail time. That meant the confiscation of the semi truck. That meant a lifetime debt to their partners, which no one would ever forgive him for.

The Tech graduate’s brain produced a brief spark of intuition. If you can’t bypass the system, you have to reset it. Erase the evidence. And do it via biological means.

Misha dialed the driver’s number.

— Serg, how’s it going. Pull over at the Finnish gas station right before Brusnichnoye. Go to sleep. Stay put until I tell you otherwise.

— Got it. Should I turn off the engine?

— It’s night out, chilly. Turn off the cooling unit, you'll save fuel, nothing will happen to the grass.

The cell phone buzzed the following night. The driver was puffing heavily into the receiver.

— There’s something going on here… Strange sounds coming from inside. Some kind of scratching, noise, crazy stuff. Something is screaming, tearing at things. Sounds like meowing. Maybe a cat jumped inside from the loading ramp back in Kotka while they were straightening out the pallets? Should I call some witnesses, like we’re supposed to? Cut the seal, write up an unsealing report?

Misha froze with the phone pressed to his ear. Some kind of noises? The driver could be imagining anything, he was sleep-deprived!

— Cut the seal? — Misha’s voice sounded grim and tense, but without a hint of panic. — We won’t get a pat on the back for a broken seal. Do not touch the doors. Whatever is in there, the reefer isn’t at minus twenty. Over and out.

Misha resolutely disconnected the call. He knew perfectly well why the doors could not, must not be opened. But admitting it was even more impossible.

Misha wished no harm upon anyone. But he wished no harm upon himself twice as much. He was a good boy. Really. Rather, he couldn't live seeing himself any other way. The mirror had to reflect exceptional perfection.

Roses for long distance transit are packed using the dry method.

The flower’s biology operates non stop. A rose continues to live and breathe even in absolute darkness and cold, but a sharp temperature swing kills it.

As the temperature rose, the rose triggered an irreversible process. It began to consume itself, drawing juices from its leaves and the capillaries of its stem. On the third day, the biological death of the flower occurred. By the time the driver started the engine and headed toward the checkpoint, the elite, premium-class cargo inside was destroyed.

By three in the morning, as the truck was rolling up to the Brusnichnoye international border crossing, Misha calculatedly made a couple of phone calls. Sent a couple of messages.

— A truck is entering your station, reefer number licence plate 0406 75. The driver’s cooling unit broke down back near Kotka. The cargo is organic. A bacterial outbreak is possible. Check it for safety.

Misha hung up. It was a precise calculation. According to regulations, when a report regarding the spoilage of perishables is logged, State Quarantine is called in.

And so it happened. An inspector, yawning, stopped the truck before it reached the weigh station.

He ordered the seal to be broken. When the heavy door of the reefer swung open, the stench of a biological infection blasted into the night air of Vyborg. Instead of tight, aromatic buds, the boxes contained nothing but unsellable waste.

There, by the edge of the soggy packaging, the inspector discovered two tiny, stiffened kittens. Due to stress and the cold, the cat had given birth right on top of the cardboard boxes of roses.

For quarantine control, such a cargo is a hotbed of bacterial hazard. Without even thinking of digging deeper into the boxes, the inspector drafted a Notice of Import Ban. By law, dead plant cargo is prohibited from entering the territory of the Russian Fed. The vehicle was detained.

The investigators waiting further up the post were left empty-handed. The search never even started. The document from the state quarantine halted the customs.

Two days later, Misha was sitting in the office of the Qzar company, honestly moving the computer mouse around. On the desk, he laid out the official report of the quarantine phytosanitary control.

— Guys, the reefer ran like a Swiss watch, here is the printout, — Misha said calmly, shrugging his shoulders. — We maintained a steady pace. But your Finnish shippers in Kotka foisted a batch of dead roses onto us. They must have violated the technical specs or slipped us defective goods from the start. While we were stuck in the queue due to the gridlock at the border, the flowers ran out of their biological shelf life. They dried up and shed their petals in perfect cold conditions. The blame lies entirely with the Finnish warehouse. Take it up with them for the ruined cargo. File a lawsuit against them.

Misha felt a sudden ping of anxiety. Nikita is the one responsible for the cargo. Whew, at least it’s not him. But Nikita is his friend…

A felony charge for large scale non declaration of goods is no joke. The Federal Customs Service would pin all the blame for the illegal cargo on the transit organizer, Nikita. That meant real jail time. That meant the confiscation of the truck. That meant a lifetime debt to their partners, which no one would ever forgive him for.

The Master's degree graduate’s brain produced a brief spark of intuition. If you can’t bypass the system, you have to reset it. Erase the evidence. And do it via biological means.

Misha dialed the driver’s number.

— Serg, how’s it going. Pull over at the Finnish gas station right before Cranberry gates. Go to sleep. Stay put until I tell you otherwise.

— Got it. Should I turn off the engine?

— It’s night out, chilly. Turn off the reefer unit, you'll save fuel, nothing will happen to the grass.

The cell phone buzzed the following night. The driver was puffing heavily into the receiver.

Misha froze with the phone pressed to his ear. Some kind of noises? The driver could be imagining anything, he was sleep-deprived!

Misha resolutely disconnected the call. He knew perfectly well why the doors could not, must not be opened. But admitting it was even more impossible.

Misha wished no harm upon anyone. But he wished no harm upon himself twice as much. He was a good boy. Rather, he couldn't live seeing himself any other way. The mirror had to reflect exceptional perfection.

Roses for long distance transit are packed using the dry method.

The flower’s biology operates non stop. A rose continues to live and breathe even in absolute darkness and cold, but a sharp temperature swing kills it.

By three in the morning, as the truck was rolling up to the Cranberry Gates international border crossing, Misha calculatedly made a couple of phone calls. Sent a couple of messages.

— A truck is entering your station, reefer licence plate number 0406 75. The driver’s cooling system failed back near Kotka. The cargo is organic. A bacterial outbreak is possible. Check it for safety.

Misha hung up. It was a precise calculation. According to regulations, when a report regarding the spoilage of perishables is logged, State Quarantine is called in.

And so it happened. An inspector, yawning, stopped the truck before it reached the weigh station.

There, by the edge of the soggy packaging, the inspector discovered two tiny, stiffened kittens. Due to stress and the cold, the cat had given birth right on top of the cardboard boxes of roses.

For quarantine control, such a cargo is a hotbed of bacterial hazard. Without even thinking of digging deeper into the boxes, the inspector drafted an Import Refusal Act. By law, dead plant cargo is prohibited from entering the territory of the Russian Federation. The vehicle was detained.

The enforcement ops up ahead were left completely empty-handed. The search never even started. The document from the state quarantine halted the customs.

Two days later, Misha was sitting in the office of the Qzar company, honestly moving the computer mouse around. On the desk, he laid out the official report of the quarantine phyto sanitary control.

— Guys, the reefer ran like a Swiss watch, here is the temperature log, — Misha said calmly, shrugging his shoulders. — We maintained a steady pace. But your Finnish shippers in Kotka foisted a batch of dead roses onto us. They must have violated the technical specs or slipped us defective goods from the start. While we were stuck in the border gridlock, the flowers ran out of their biological shelf life. They dried up and shed their petals in perfect cold conditions. The blame lies entirely with the Finnish warehouse. Take it up with them for the ruined cargo. File a lawsuit against them.

Staring at the flawless temperature log, everyone remained silent. The lawyers were already preparing the contract termination paperwork, while Nikita was gathering his documents. In the mid 2000s, digital tracking didn't exist. No one could check via satellite where exactly the vehicle had been parked. And those temperature log printouts could be easily faked in Moscow.

Misha walked out onto the wet Moscow street and took a breath of the cool air. He smiled grimly. True, the freight rate for this trip was lost. But the contraband had been erased by chronology of Khronos himself, and he had stepped out of the trap with completely clean hands. His model had worked. It was just that instead of transport logistics, he had to calculate the logistics of death.

Chapter 3. Rose

Part 1. The red rose

In the private parking lot, the March snow has turned into a slushy mess of melting drifts and sharped, frozen chunks. Because of the constant pressure drops, shifting between thaws and nighttime frosts, a treacherous glaze of black ice hid beneath the top layer. That was just Moscow’s climate in the beginning of spring.

A bit further off, right past the edge of the parking lot, towered an old Russian Sobornov Cathedral. Its domes were merely invisible in the dark Moscow misty evening. Its white brick walls were hidden behind an ugly iron fence covered in a thick crust of rust. The heavy gates of the fence were locked with an old, jammed padlock, turning the holy site into just another dead, abandoned art object.

A matte black, low clearance BMW was stuck in one of the puddles made of icy slush. The car was clearly not built for such harsh weather conditions. Its body pillars were too slim and elegant, the lines of its body kit too soaring. With its round headlights casting a bewildered glow into the dark, it looked defenceless, almost girlish. It was as if a girl had accidentally ended up barefoot at a dirty, wrecked spring crossroads where she didn't belong. Part of the license plate 03 was visible beneath the splatters of mud. Under a layer of caked March dirty on the rear window, the outline of a white wedding sticker with rings could be clearly seen.

— Ah, damn it! — swore a tall man of about fifty, wearing a thick gray fur trimmed jacket thrown wide open. He was nervously trying to pull away. He tried hitting the gas while holding the wheel, then pushed the car with his shoulder. The wheels only spun helplessly, furiously, spitting fountains of dirty snow backward. The engine roared strainingy and died with a strange, dull metallic clank.

A couple of meters away, in a booth, stood two security guards in clean uniforms. From somewhere inside the booth, the sounds of Moonlight Sonata could be heard. The guards were staring at the misery. Next to the booth, in a separate VIP spot, a white Audi gleamed immaculately clean.

The man by the BMW, breathing heavily, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a stained sleeve. He turned around:

— Hey, guys! Can you give me a push? I’ll take the wheel. I’ve got an emergency, there is no time, could you help me out!

One of the guards, a blonde with the Aryan gaze of clear blue eyes, looked the man up and down.

— Not our area of responsibility. Our rules say perimeter control. Besides, ruining our uniforms to strain ourselves for someone who can’t even earn enough for a good set of tires? Sorry, fellow. Figure it out for yourself.

The second guard just smirked.

Nearby, a young, thin, dark haired guy, who had already opened the door of his own car, suddenly stopped. He was clearly in a hurry, but after glancing at the parking lot, he slammed his door shut. He walked over quickly, gave the driver a silent nod, and pressed his hands against the ice crusted trunk of the sedan.

— Come on, start it up! — he shouted.

The man dove behind the wheel and turned the key. His mobile phone was ringing on the passenger seat.

— My daughter’s in the hospital, and I can't wait for a taxi. I need to move fast.

The guy nodded in understanding. He adjusted his grip on the cold, slicky metal, digging in with his shoulder. Throwing his entire weight into it, he sank literally knee deep into the wet slush. Grime kicked up by the spinning wheels splattered across his jeans.

Freedom was only a couple of meters away. The car had almost cleared the fatal stretch. Gritting his teeth, he gave one sharp, powerful heave. The chassis rocked and nearly tore free from the trap. But then, the BMW began to drift sideways on the slope, sliding directly toward the white Audi. The Audi was still far enough away, but the mere sight of it was enough to make the security guard spring into action.

— Hey, tough guy! That’s enough! Get your hands off! — the blonde guard protected his properties, leaping out of the booth and zipping up his jacket on the fly, which bore the branding of the logo of LoGate parking lot.

The second guard, wearing an identical Gate log jacket, shifted his gaze from the Audi to the BMW’s windshield. There was no guest pass tucked under the wiper. The system did not recognize the car as one of its own. It belonged to a different perimeter.

The blonde pressed a button on his remote. Pure darky terror froze in his eyes.

— Step away from the vehicle, do you hear me! Stop acting like a psycho! You’re about to scrape the Audi, who’s going to pay for that?

— I’m just helping roll it out onto level ground, — the guy shot back without taking his hands off the cold metal. — The man’s in a hurry, it's some kind of emergency. Just one last push and she'll catch traction...

— No more pushes! Hit the brakes! — the guard grabbed the guy roughly by the sleeve, pulling him away from the trunk by force. — Not your area of responsibility. Back off, I said.

The guy lost his footing. His hands slid uselessly across the icy trunk lid. Jolted by the sudden shove, the BMW rocked and slammed back down with a dull thud, bottoming out directly onto a sharp chunk of frozen ice. A tire hissed as it went flat. From beneath the radiator, antifreeze began to drip forlornly into a filthy spring puddle. That was it.

The car wasn't just stuck; it was completely dead in the middle of the icy morass, its wheel finally settling deep into a profound pothole. The guy’s gaze swept across the hood of the car. There, an airbrushed image of a single, delicate red rose looked out.

— What a nightmare! — the man cried out in despair. With trembling hands, he began dialing for a taxi.

A dead calmness settled in the blonde guard’s eyes.

— Exit is blocked, — he tossed dryly. — Pass is invalid. Does not match the database. Wait for a flatbed tow truck with soft straps, let them pull it out according to protocol. We don't need accidents inside a closed perimeter.

The guy turned to the driver, looking bewildered:

— I would give you a ride. — The guy backed away, averting his eyes, wiping his palms on his jacket as he moved. — But I’ve got this thing. A reservation at a restaurant. The girl’s waiting, she won't understand. I’m sorry.

The guards shook themselves out with relief.

— Like we said. You hold the perimeter, you don't soil your uniform. Go on, get in your car, don't block the exit.

— How did it even get in here in the first place if the pass belongs to someone else? — the second guard inquired.

The blonde kept quiet. He merely cast his eyes down with a modest smirk, squeezing some object in his hand.

The dark haired lad returned to his car. The guards watche him.

The slender youth started the engine. He turned on the climate control, which washed over his face with pleasant warmth. He stole a quick glance into the side mirror: the man by the BMW was on his knees in the mud, phone pressed to his ear. The guy looked away.

On the seat beside him, carefully wrapped in cellophane, lay a bundle. The petals inside were slightly damp. The guy suddenly leaned down a bit, picked up the bundle, and touched his nose to the delicate petals. He caught that soft, tender floral scent. Quietly, softly, he murmured:

— She loves roses. Red ones. Says they smell real, not chemicals.

The car pulled away, carefully navigating around the dirty puddle near the exit, where the BMW, its faded wedding rings still on the window, was left behind at the dark crossroads.

Part 2. That's a crime to be so beautiful -

Misha Sobornov's cite

A crack had appeared on her hood... From the grief and disasters that had befallen her. On the matte fender, someone had scratched a word, as if using a bent nail:

Forgive me.

— The BMW needs to be...

At that exact moment, blue glittering lights cut through the gray Moscow twilight.

The blonde guard opened his fist, slotted the keys into the lock and quickly opened the BMW door. He slipped inside before the tow truck arrived. For a second, he froze, not fully understanding his own actions. He opened the glove compartment, and a book tumbled out, falling open right in the middle.

— What will this croco-cat do?

— The cat'll whine at the moon, the crocodile will sweep away all on its way with its tail.

— Sweep away with its tail? Don't make me laugh. He’s a scared little rabbit, he’ll bolt straight for the bushes. He is organically incapable of answering for his actions.

— Wagging a tail isn't answering for something; it’s the exact opposite.

— A coward doesn't play hockey. He’ll land right back at his secured warehouse parking lot with logs and gates.

— Can a castration be reversed?

— Castration of the soul has no reverse gear. Or do you think otherwise?

— Castration doesn't. The soul does.

— Only this technical specification won't pass under the logate parking boom. That’s from the skygate.

The blonde quickly slammed the book shut and scrambled out before he could be caught red handed.

— Passes need to be processed correctly, — he thought, pacing along the perimeter of the parking lot, a dark frown on his face. He frowned. His fingers pulled his gloves tight out of habit, the logistics cash warming his soul nicely. The status of a humble guard at the check point was the perfect smoke screen. Let everyone think he was counting pennies at the gate. Meanwhile, a massive, lucrative transit flow was moving through the logs of the right connections of this low gate parking lot.

The parking lot was being cleared up.

— Hey, take it easy! — the blonde man shouted, putting on the act of a vigilant guard.

The tow truck operator, a rugged man, was tightening the soft straps beneath the bottom of the matte gloss sedan which guard had just left.

— It's a crime to be that beautiful, — the blonde muttered, pressing his palm against his heart, which was terribly leaping out of his chest.

The operator didn't turn around at the shout. The boom moved up, hoisting the chassis. At that exact moment, a dull groan echoed through the air. The soft textile strap snapped with the dry crack of a whip. The captive sedan crashed back down into the melting, hard crusted snow with a resonant thud, damaging its fender. From the tear, a fluid the color of blue antifreeze began to drip onto the snow.

The blonde didn't blink. He walked up to the grim tow truck driver. Shaking his head ruefully, he offered from the generosity of his soul:

— Well, you're screwed. The object was damaged during relocation. I'm just a watchman, my business is the gate. Write this in the report: spontaneous slippage of mechanical cargo. I'm out of the loop.

While the driver was filling out the paperwork, the blonde quickly stepped into the booth. His fingers danced across the keyboard out of habit.

— We’ll pull through!

Using his admin privileges, he instantly processed a massive bonus to himself as the model employee. For vigilance during emergency liquidation. The electronic token beeped, approving the transaction of pure qualified forgiveness. The balance dropped onto his card of eternity.

But his joy was short lived. The screen of his work terminal suddenly flashed crimson. The system froze, and a notification from Moskomzem unexpectedly popped up. The old permits, obtained through backroom deals with the right people in the district administration, had been revoked in a single click.

A knock came at the window. The new owner of the city parking lot had cut off the old padlocks. The illicit cash flow from the warm parking lot had just vanished. The blonde understood the hint without words. Grabbing his jacket, he slid into his Audi and dialed a phone number. Control was lost; a new gateway was needed.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he looked back at the wrecked car that had so recently gleamed with fresh gloss, its wedding rings still behind the glass.

The flashes were flickering in his mind, of how he had been inside, putting on the gas pedal beyond the limit, jammed with a harsh grating sound against the cynical hustle.

Part 3. Icy Eyes

The blonde packed the collapse of his dreaming illusions into a new cycle of his flesh's decentralization. This time, the blonde actually hired himself out as a simple security guard. This time, at an elite underground parking structure. There, sports cars belonging to Ministry favorites stood parked in two neat rows.

The head of the parking lot, a fiery brunette, possessed icy eyes the color of Arctic Diesel and a total absence of illusions. She read the blonde's breed instantly. She didn't need a mere watchman; she required a precise executive logistician for errands and personal comfort in her nest above the parking lot.

Following the very first nighttime audit, during which the blonde serviced her needs, giving it his all to the tune of max percent profit margin, she made her decision. The lady tossed the keys to the central console onto his desk:

— You’ll be the shift supervisor. Your job: ensure my little chicks' balances match up. Strangers don't walk around here. Not by dates, and not to play the fields. Questions?

The blonde offered a subtle smile.

— We’ll pull through.

He was back in the game, only the depth of his defeat with immersion had shifted. The new fairway now seemed more predictable.

The LoGate parking logo on his hoodie danced with all the colors of the rainbow. In step with a new global Era.

NEXT Part: click

SkyGate S vs LoGate G Sobornova logistics Moscow Russia