Moscow is a city where the surface hides its secrets, a sprawling metropolis cut down the middle by the cold Moskva River. On this night, rain pours down in relentless sheets as the streets shine like slick glass under neon lights, which flicker and buzz like the dying embers of a forgotten dream. Here, in this hellscape, humanity is but a specter of its former self, and among the people - a bounty hunter moves through them like a wraith. The Hunter is dressed in a sleek outfit that clings to his form like a second skin. The bodysuit is made of black, armored synth-leather, reinforced with carbon-fiber plates. It absorbs light, giving him an almost ghost like appearance as he moves. His boots, heavy and treaded, make no sound on the wet pavement. His face is obscured by a helmet, its visor a dark mirror, hiding his emotions from the world.

As The Hunter walks, the city around him breaths with life. People huddle under the awnings of dilapidated buildings, their faces gaunt and eyes hollow. Vendors sell synthetic food from rusting carts, their calls blending with the distant wail of sirens and the hum of billboards. The air is thick with the stench of decay, and the pollution is so bad that it chokes the city. The Hunter's breath, visible in the cold air, mingles with the rain, creating a mist that swirls around him. The sidewalks are cracked and uneven, filled with puddles of oily water that distort the glow of the neon signs. The Hunter's every step is calculated, avoiding the deeper pools where the city's filth congregates. He moves like a predator, his mind focused on the task at hand. The Kremlin, an ancient fortress turned high-tech stronghold, looms in the distance, its silhouette a jagged outline against the darkened sky.

The people he passes give him a wide berth, sensing the danger that radiates from him. They whisper amongst themselves, their voices lost in the crowded streets. The Hunter pays them no mind for it is his mission that matters. He is a bounty hunter, a bringer of death, and tonight, someone in the Kremlin will feel the touch of his resolve. As he nears his destination, the buildings grow taller. The streets are cleaner here, but the atmosphere is no less foreboding. Security drones hover overhead, scanning for any sign of trouble, but the Hunter's suit has already hacked into their systems, rendering him invisible to their sensors. He moves with confidence, his path clear and unimpeded. The Kremlin's outer walls rise before him, barbed wire and laser turrets placed upon the ancient stone, creating a fortress that is nearly impenetrable. The Hunter is no ordinary man; he is the best at what he does, and he approaches a hidden access point, a small maintenance hatch concealed by years of grime and neglect. A quick scan with his visor reveals the electronic lock, which he bypasses with ease. The hatch opens with a hiss, and the Hunter slips inside, the sound of the rain fading behind him. The corridor is narrow and dark, illuminated only by soft emergency lights. Water drips from the ceiling, like the ticking of a clock, counting down the moments to his target's demise.

The Hunter moves silently, his enhanced senses alert for any sign of danger. He navigates the passageways with practiced ease, his memory recalling the blueprints he had studied. Every turn, every step, brings him closer to his target. The walls here are damp, but he feels nothing, neither the chill of the air nor the weight of his mission. He is a machine of flesh and bone, driven by purpose. Finally, he reaches a chamber at the heart of the Kremlin.

The space is brightly lit, illuminated by screens and control panels that line its walls. The floor is a polished composite, its surface a dark, reflective black that seems to absorb the ambient light. It subtly changes color, shifting from deep midnight blue to a more violet hue, giving the impression of a vast, shifting ocean. Against the walls are enormous, floor-to-ceiling holographic displays that project real-time data, maps, and intricate layouts of Moscow and its surrounding area. These holograms float in mid-air with data on the screens that scrolls continuously, showing streams of code, satellite imagery, and tactical overlays. In the center of the chamber stands a massive, circular control console. Its surface is a seamless expanse of matte black, studded with buttons, touch-sensitive panels, and dials. At the far end, a panoramic window provides a sweeping view of Moscow’s skyline, with the city’s towering skyscrapers stretching out into the distance. The rain outside streaks the window in vertical lines, and as the Hunter steps inside, his presence is immediately noted by the advanced surveillance systems. President of Russia, Savva Kirik, stands alone at the far side of the room, looking down at his city below. Savva is his designated target, a man of power and influence, who has been left intentionally unaware of the fate that approaches him. The Hunter's hand moves to his side, where a black firearm is holstered, and he draws it with a fluid motion.

Savva turns to see the Hunter, and his firearm at the ready. Savva displays a mix of curiosity and irritation at the sight of the bounty hunter in his personal chamber, “Who the hell are you?” Savva asks in Russian, his voice a low growl.

"Your appointment,” the Hunter tells him flatly as he closes the door behind him.

“Lower your weapon,” Savva demands with his attention now fixated on the gun, “It is not necessary.”

“I’ll determine that,” the Hunter replies, his gun pointed at Savva’s chest, “You’ve been selected, for an interview, and one that won’t take long,” the Hunter replies, his voice steady and devoid of emotion.

A tiny smirk forms and then falls from the edges of Savva’s mouth, “You mean to tell me, that you’ve risked your life to ask me some questions? Surely there are better ways-”

“This is the only way,” the Hunter cuts him off, “Now, take a seat,” the Hunter motions to a chair directly next to Savva.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, Savva concedes and sits down slowly, “Please,” he asks again, “Lower your weapon”

Savva is a large man, and his ice-blue eyes follow the Hunter’s every move as he holsters his weapon, and then begins setting up the Voight-Kampff test device on the table between them. The Hunter carefully places the metallic device on the table. It’s compact yet formidable, resembling a high-tech medical instrument designed for surgery. The central console is affixed with a series of buttons and a vibrant touchscreen display, ready to capture every detail. The Hunter connects two delicate sensors to the subject: one gently adheres to Savva’s cheek, while the other wraps around the wrist, designed to monitor pulse and skin response. As the Hunter adjusts the settings, the device hums to life, a low vibration that breathes tense anticipation into the air. With a steady hand, the Hunter activates the interface, the screen coming to life with a series of prompts and metrics. It blinks as it displays real-time biometric data, ready to reveal the hidden emotions beneath the surface. The Hunter studies the readings, knowing that each heartbeat and tremor will be critical in uncovering the truth.

“Are you ready?” the Hunter asks, locking eyes with Savva once again.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this,” Savva is resistant, “What is this machine?”

“It is the only way of knowing.”

Savva frowns as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed defiantly, “Knowing what? Shouldn’t it be enough to answer a question without measuring my heart rate?”

The Hunter doesn’t miss a beat, his expression narrows slightly as he meets Savva’s gaze, “No one, and I mean no one, single handedly storms the Kremlin, disarms trained guards, and personally disposes the previous President without suspicion. The people of Russia deserve to know the truth of what really happened.”

Savva shifts in his seat as if trying to distance himself from the Hunter, “Truth? What do you mean? This sounds absurd. I am the chosen one. Gifted the strength of many men by the god, Odin, himself!”

“We have credible intel suggesting there is more to your power than faith and magic. If you refuse this test, it raises serious questions about who you really are, and where your loyalties lie.”

Savva leans forward with his fists clenched, his voice rising, “You’re implying I could be what? A spy!? That’s outrageous!”

The Hunter’s tone remains consistent, “If there’s nothing to hide, you shouldn’t have a problem cooperating.”

Savva is visibly uneasy, “And if I refuse?”

The Hunter stays calm, the faint beeping of the device breaking the silence, “I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen if you refuse,” the Hunter touches the holster of his weapon.

Savva sighs heavily, frustration evident as he runs a hand through his hair, “I will not engage in some witch hunt.”

The Hunter maintains eye contact, “This test is a precaution, a necessary step to maintain your position and protect the future of the World. I’m here to uncover the truth. If you’re innocent, this is a formality.”

Savva is defeated, “Fine. But there will be repercussions for this,” Savva pauses, “For you,” he reaffirms.

The Hunter activates the Voight-Kampff device, a sophisticated machine designed to measure subtle physiological responses to emotional stimuli. “Please answer the questions as truthfully as possible,” the Hunter says, his attention shifts to the machine’s readouts, and then back up to Savva, “Imagine you’re watching a dog being struck by its owner. How do you feel?”

Savva’s bristles with confusion and then anger, “What the hell kind of question is that? It’s disgusting.”

The Hunter notes the response, both verbal and physiological, “You’re walking in a desert and come across a turtle lying on its back, struggling to turn over. You do nothing. Why?”

Savva’s irritation deepens, a vein pulsing at his temple, “What kind of person do you think I am? I’d help the turtle.”

The Hunter remains impassive, monitoring the subtle changes in Savva’s heart rate and skin conductivity. “You’re at a banquet. You see a plate of food that looks delicious but realize it’s made of a genetically modified creature, bred only for consumption. What do you do?”

Savva’s patience is wearing thin, “I’d probably eat it. What does this have to do with anything?”

The Hunter continues, unflinching, “A child shows you a picture they’ve drawn. It’s not very good, but they’re proud of it. What do you say?”

Savva’s face softens slightly, “I’d tell them it’s great. Encourage them.”

The Hunter nods, jotting down notes, “Now, imagine you’re at a party, and someone spills a drink on you. What’s your reaction?”

Savva shifts in his seat, a slight frown forming, “I’d probably laugh it off. Accidents happen, right?”

The questions roll on, designed to elicit genuine emotional reactions, “You find a wallet on the ground. What do you do?”

“I’d turn it in. It’s not mine.” Savva replies, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

The Hunter leans in closer, “You’re watching a movie, and the hero sacrifices themselves for the greater good. What do you feel?”

Savva’s brow furrows, and for a moment, he hesitates, “I feel... inspired? I guess?”

As the Hunter watches, his expression remains stoic, but internally, he’s picking apart every nuance, every slight change in Savva’s demeanor. The readings on the device fluctuate, a faint pulse of irregularity sparking his interest. The Hunter shuts off the device, the silence in the room palpable, broken only by the distant thrum of the city and the relentless rain tapping against the window.

“Well?” Savva asks, frustration mixed with anxiety.

The Hunter stands, tension in the air like static. “You’re part of something,” he holds eye contact with Savva, “Something bigger… darker.”

Savva’s expression shifts to disbelief, “I am the President of Russia, how dare you-”

The Hunter moves closer toward Savva, his voice low and steady, “You think it’s a coincidence that our intel points directly to you? There are hidden agendas at play, and you’re at the center of it.”

Savva’s face flushes with anger as he jumps up from the chair, “You’re out of your mind! I’ve dedicated my life to this country!”

“I’m sorry Mr. President,” the Hunter draws his weapon, “You’re officially retired.”

Savva freezes, the fire in his eyes replaced with shock, “Don’t do this!”

The Hunter’s grip is steady. “You have two choices,” he continues, his voice firm. “Sit down and talk, or find out how serious I am.”

Savva’s breath comes in heavy gasps, the fight draining from him as he begins to sit down once again, “This is a mistake…”

The Hunter does not lower his weapon. “You will tell me everything you know, starting with—” Before he can finish, Savva lunges at him, desperation overriding reason. The Blade Hunter reacts instinctively, firing a single shot that erupts with a loud BANG.

The replicant falls back into the chair, the force of the shot sending him sprawling. A clear fluid pours from the wound in his chest, pooling on the floor like the puddles found outside. Silence overcomes the large space, the only sound being the faint patter of rain against the window, as if the world itself is holding its breath. The Hunter stands over the fallen figure, his heart pounding. This is the reality of his mission—there is no room for hesitation, no time for second-guessing. He holsters his weapon and takes a moment to collect himself. The Hunter knows this is just the beginning. With one enemy down, he turns his thoughts to the others lurking in the dark corners of the world, knowing that each step forward will bring new dangers.

As he kneels to inspect the android, once known as Savva Kirik, the Hunter pulls a piece of crumpled paper from the deceased machine’s jacket pocket. Written on the paper is three letters in bold:


SHL

Part 2 - Chameleon

(2370 words)