The City.

If anyone had the grace to get out of the city, if someone were driving on First Street, heading towards State Road, they would have seen a man leaning against a streetlamp. Dressed in black, wearing sunglasses. A contemptuous smile on his face.

* * *

It was dark, cold, and just plain nasty. And it was raining. The city streets seemed even more bland now, grayish. Huge glass skyscrapers lit by the glare of car headlights, smog in the air, a stench in the basements. The city – a hodgepodge of people always in a hurry, for whom only the tip of their noses mattered.

The city. The city of the Game Master.

In one day, I lost my family, my friends, my dignity, my job. Not necessarily in that order. Frankly, I didn't care. I was a dark one, and I couldn't give a damn—the Master sometimes had such deviations—when he was depressed, our world transformed from a sunny, small town still lit by kerosene lamps into a vast metropolis bathed in rain. But that was usually all. He was merciful.

So I walked, cold and wet, toward the metro station. Recently, I had a conversation with the light ones, the ones I wasn't allowed to touch because the Master had ordered it. With that boring, uninteresting, and constantly lost amateur actress, the surly antiquarian who seemed to be the only one on the team capable of thinking, the psychologist who thought he was a man, and of course, the farmer who had appeared here out of nowhere and why and had started turning everything upside down.

They asked. And he, the Master, I mean, answered their questions through my mouth. They asked about what they had been asking—who killed me, when I found the body, what my alibi was. I was deceiving them, because that was my role. I was supposed to really mess with their heads. To make things more interesting, to make them suffer.

Today I was important. I had these four hours to show my worth. So what if I suddenly went from a delightful episode, a wealthy man surrounded by kind people, a beautiful wife, and three children, to a miserable cleaner who accidentally discovered a mutilated body in his cellar and called the police? And everything was happening around me.

I turned into a narrow alleyway stretching between two enormous office buildings (the Master loved creating such places because, in his opinion, they were dark and mysterious; he didn't care that such alleyways didn't exist in real cities), which was closer to the station. I yawned. I had a chance. The Light Ones were currently searching the victim's house, looking for clues, emptying his refrigerator, chattering in vain. I faded into oblivion for now, but that wasn't a bad thing. I could breathe a sigh of relief.

You'll probably ask me what my name is, and frankly, I won't be able to answer. The reason is simple – over the past four weeks, I've been a dozen different people, in different worlds, eras, with different names, professions, and appearances. And my names were different – ​​Martin, Walter, Robert, even Julia. My current name was Harry. Harry Armstrong.

I slowly descended the stairs to the platform. I bought a ticket from the graying ticket agent and sat on a bench. I waited. I smiled at the thought of the sweet brunette with violet eyes reading a newspaper in the fourth carriage. She was sweet, beautiful, and definitely intelligent. Every time I rode the subway and she sat in the same seat for years, I tried to force myself to approach her. She was dark, like me, but so what? We could have had our moments of pleasure, too.

The Game Master's world was vast, but not particularly precise or polished. He was lazy and didn't feel like paying attention to details. It had its advantages too – a pretty girl always sitting in the same seat on the subway, the ability to predict the identity of the person who would soon emerge from around the corner, and finally, warm, tasty hamburgers waiting at a table, so you wouldn't have to worry about anyone eating them. No thieves. And so on.

The subway entered the station, quickly, unnoticed, silently. I rose from the bench, positioned myself by the door, and entered.

And then I realized something was wrong.

Because in seat 74, instead of a beautiful woman, sat a man in sunglasses and a black suit. Next to him was another. And another. Each one different. Too many details, damn it, too many details.

And each one stared at me like I was the bunny of the month.

I was back in the game.

I stood in the same spot as usual, near the door, and grabbed a steel tube attached to the ceiling. Every now and then, I glanced at the three men, watching me closely from behind their dark glasses. Something bad was about to happen. Very bad.

The Light Ones hadn't found anything at the victim's house. They were currently heading to the police station, asking about this or that. And I was riding the subway, under the watchful eyes of three bespectacled squatters. Great.

I considered my options. I could have jumped them like a madman and probably gotten shot right then and there; waited for the last stop, then they would surely have dragged me off the subway, dragged me into a dark alley, and finished me off.

They gave the Game Master another angle to his story.

I could also wait for the fat guy to get on. If he gets on, of course. And then... Push him straight at the undercover officers and run for broke. Risky, but with the best chance of survival.

I didn't have time to consider the pros and cons of this solution. The train pulled into the station and stopped. The fat man got on. A station too early. A station too early, damn it!

There was no time to think. When he got on, I pulled him towards me, then, using his own momentum, knocked him straight into the three men.

I ran out as fast as I could.

A moment later, they ran out too. Still behind stony faces, speechless. The only thing that had changed about them were the pistols in their hands. They were chasing me, and I was running.

The Master must have run out of ideas, since he sentenced a dark man like me to death. I was usually the one who played the most important, leading roles. But he didn't die. Never. Honestly, I didn't know what happened to us after death. And I didn't want to know.

It was still pouring. I ran out of the station and turned left, towards the enormous square we call "Game Master Square." To reach the people, to reach the crowd. They probably wouldn't dare go there, though...

The Game Master isn't one for mercy.

I ran. Without feeling tired, fueled by fear. Feeling the breath of three professional Dark cleaners on my shoulder. I ran.

And then I realized it was pointless.

The sky, the buildings, the ground rippled, blurred. It turned black. A blur. The Master was changing the world, adapting some of the Dark ones to the new realities, sending them to another place, another time. Everything had to fit. And I even guessed who he was transporting this time.

Apparently, it didn't suit him that I should die here, on the street.

Beside me was emptiness. Darkness, nothingness. Only three undercover officers, frozen, frozen in their tracks. He stopped them.

I closed my eyes. I waited. There was nothing else I could do.

* * *

The bullet missed my temple by mere centimeters. I threw myself to the side, seeking shelter behind my sofa. So he did want me to die here. In my current home. A small, hole-in-the-wall studio apartment, dusty, and without even cable (who would want to clean both at work and at home?). He wanted this place, behind that old reddish couch, on the square, gray-brown rug, to be my grave.

His untimely arrival.

They were standing two meters away, under the dirty window (I wonder why they didn't just walk around the couch and shove it all in my face), shooting at me with a pistol I didn't recognize. From what I could tell, they didn't need to reload. A mistake in the world, but what a useful one for the Master...

They'd been silent until now. And just when I thought a stray bullet would soon find its way into my head, one of them spoke.

"Surrender," his voice was flat, as if mechanical. The word "robot" flashed through my mind. I smiled involuntarily.

It couldn't get any worse.

"Fuck you," I retorted, trying to mimic his voice; not thinking or moving. Besides, if I'd surfaced, I'd have ended my miserable existence anyway. So I had to leave gracefully, right?

"Surrender," he repeated. They stopped shooting. "We'll show you mercy if you surrender.

We'll show you mercy—damn it, where did they come from?"

"Why do you want to kill me?" I asked, though I thought I knew the answer.

"An order. From the Game Master. His orders are unquestionable.

" "Are you dark ones?"

"A state secret," they replied simultaneously, their voices merging into one.

Footsteps. They're coming for me. Now or never, I thought. I had a plan. Simple, yet brilliant. When I saw them in all their glory, I'd stand up, laugh in their faces, and wait for a reaction. They'd shoot, or they wouldn't. It all depended on them. Or rather, from the Master, because he'd programmed them.

The sofa, thrown against the wall, shattered into tiny pieces. I was a bit taken aback—they were incredibly strong. And terrified, let's be honest.

How ridiculous I must have looked in their eyes then—curled up, thumb in mouth. Nothing in my plan, nothing in my beautiful, dignified death, I thought.

Will it go off or not? Is today my lucky day?

They didn't shoot.

"Surrender. You passed." One of them holstered his gun and held out his hand to me. "The Master predicted two outcomes. The choice is yours, Smith.

Smith? And who is it? Because it's definitely not...

" "Choose, Smith," he urged.

Only then did I start laughing.

* * *

If anyone had the grace to get out of town, if someone were driving on First Street, heading for State Road, they would have seen a man leaning against a streetlamp. Dressed in black, with sunglasses... A smile of contempt on his face. A gun in his hand.

If he listened closely, he could probably hear his words, cold, colorless. And what did he say? Well, a lot. He was telling his story, telling how rotten the world was. The Game Master's world.

You'll probably ask him what his name was. And he wouldn't be able to answer that question. He had various names. Walter, Martin, Robert. Even Julia. His current name was Smith.

He was a dark one, but not an ordinary one. He had a task, a mission. He was an assassin. By the hand of the Game Master.

Dark ones wouldn't kill themselves in adventures; the Master couldn't just order them to die...

Someone had to do the dirty work for him..