BIOLOGICAL SUPERCOMPUTER SYSTEM C.805 Volkov’s questions

In the warmth of a room, a man sank into a plush chair, relishing the softness against his skin as he held a delicate crystal flute filled with champagne.

As he took a leisurely sip, the effervescent liquid shimmered under the chandeliers' glow, delighting his senses.

Impeccably dressed waiters glided through the room, effortlessly balancing trays of mouthwatering culinary creations.

With respectful nods, they approached the man and laid out a tempting spread of delicacies: from elegant canapes to juicy, grilled seafood.

With a discerning eye, he selected a few, taking note of the delicate arrangement of colors and textures before indulging in their taste.

The champagne continued to flow, the food never ceased to arrive. That was until someone arrived and whispered something in his ears.

Volkov gave a nod, signaling his intent to leave. The moment he stood up, the music came to an abrupt halt, and a palpable stillness settled over the room.

As the musicians caught his gaze, their bodies tensed, their eyes filled with fear that shimmered like a trembling string after a note has been played.

Without exchanging a single word, he spun around and left the room, the sound of his footsteps lingering in the extravagant hallway.

The grandeur of the setting faded into the background as he walked, his path taking him through a series of ornate corridors.

The walls, adorned with tapestries and paintings that spoke of power and conquest, seemed to watch him pass silent witnesses to the journey.

Volkov reached a narrow staircase, its descent shrouded in shadows.

As he descended further, the once bright light from above diminished, until he was swallowed by the shadows of near darkness.

The air grew cooler, and the ambiance shifted from the lavishness of the upper floors to a more austere, underground world.

At the bottom of the stairs, he entered a dimly lit room. The illumination was sparse, provided by flickering lights that cast long shadows across the walls.

The atmosphere crackled with a silent energy, the room's purpose etched into its bare, minimalist design.

"My men said you may be ready to talk."

Volkov's commanding stature dominated the scene, as his shadow stretched long and dark, casting an eerie atmosphere.

Before him stood a man, his body covered in heavy chains and bearing the gruesome marks of a prolonged and brutal torture session.

The dim light highlighted the streaks of dried blood and the fresh wounds that crisscrossed his flesh, telling tales of unspoken atrocities.

The man's face bore the unmistakable marks of agony and weariness, yet a defiant spark shone in his eyes, refusing to be extinguished.

With a sudden jerk, the man mustered up his last ounce of energy and, with a scornful glance, expelled a glob of spit onto the ground.

The sight of blood and saliva mingling on the cold stone floor between them made their confrontation even more intense.

"There is nothing to tell." The man's voice was barely above a whisper, yet filled with resolve.

"You know. All of this could end easily. You must simply tell me what happened. You were part of the group chasing Becker. Yet we found out you misled them, allowing Becker to flee. The entire group got killed. All died, except for you. It should mean something, right?"

The man kept looking at Volkov. "I shared no information with anyone and didn't do what you're accusing me of. I just did my job."

"And yet evidence suggests something else."

"Your evidence can tell you anything you want. They won't change the truth."

At that very moment, a malevolent grin spread across Volkov's lips, revealing the dark side of his personality.

"Well… nothing that another session with Dominique can't fix," he said with a chilling casualness.

Dominique, whose name alone evoked an aura of dread, was the architect behind the brutal torture the chained man had endured hours earlier.

The mention of resuming the torture under Dominique's hand was not intended as a threat, but rather as a clear promise that more agony would be inflicted.

"Tell him to do his best," the chained man said.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH, I like you! I like you very much. But listen, if you think you're the only one my people are looking after, you're dead wrong. We found a bunch of rats like you, working with Becker. Eventually, one of you guys will spill the beans."

"If they really worked with Becker, then go ahead and do it. I'm only vouching for myself. I did nothing wrong."

"Still spouting bullshit, uh? Can't wait to see what your daughter says after Dominique finishes with her."

Upon hearing Volkov's threat against his daughter, the chained man's demeanor shifted.

Fear washed over him, replacing his previous defiance, and his voice shook with panic.

"My daughter has nothing to do with this! She knows nothing, I swear!"

The guy was scared, but Volkov didn't give a damn and just shrugged. His voice was devoid of warmth as he issued a final ultimatum, "Talk now. This is your last chance."

Under the dim light, the room's air thickened with tension and fear. The chained man, once defiant, now trembled, the threat against his daughter piercing through his resolve like a sharp knife.

His eyes, wide with terror, darted frantically, searching Volkov's cold, impassive face for a sign of mercy that did not come.

"Alright! Alright. " The man's words came out in a frantic, breathless rush.

"I... did what you accused me of. I misled the group and helped Becker to escape. But…"

As he confessed, his voice trembled with the weight of his words and the overwhelming concern for his daughter's well-being.

"I have no clue who helped him. I swear it on my life. Someone messaged me with instructions. I do not know who was behind it. The message was anonymous."

Volkov's malevolent grin remained unshaken, his gaze piercing into the man as if trying to discern the truth of his words.

"Interesting," he said, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "And how exactly did you mislead the group?"

The man swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I... I provided false coordinates, led them to believe Becker would be in a different location. However, that had been useless since they found him, anyway. But I never saw who sent the instructions. They were always careful."

Volkov nodded. The room fell silent for a moment, the only sounds the ragged breathing of the chained man and the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor outside.

"And the ones trying to catch him? Who killed them?" Volkov leaned closer, his eyes never leaving the man's face.

"I don't know who killed them." The man's voice was barely above a whisper, defeat etching deeper into his features.

"I was told to divert the group, and that's all I did to at least make Becker gain some time. I had no part in what happened to them afterward. Whoever helped him tried to kill me as well."

Volkov straightened, his expression contemplative. The confession, while significant, left more questions unanswered, more threads to untangle.

"You realize the gravity of your actions," he said, more a declaration than a question. "Your interference led to the deaths of your comrades, a betrayal that cost dearly."

The chained man nodded. "I understand," he said, resignation lacing his words. "I was wrong. But my daughter, she's innocent. Please..."

Volkov turned away, signaling the end of their conversation. "Your cooperation has been noted," he said, his voice devoid of any compassion. "As for your daughter, her fate will depend on the further usefulness of your information."

"NO! PLEASE! NO! LEAVE BRITTNEY ALONE!"

…

…

…

After his encounter with the chained man, Volkov returned to the comfort of his room. He got what he wanted, as the man confessed.

Although he claimed ignorance regarding the identity of Becker's helper, the mere existence of this information held great significance.

There were still allies of Becker in the country. However, it looked like they belonged to two groups. The mystery remained as to who these allies actually were, and that was a question he needed answers to.

As he settled back in his chair, the weight of the intense interrogation room lifted off his shoulders, and he embraced the tranquility of his lavish surroundings.

Apart from the butler, who stood at the edge of the room, ready to obey any command, there was no other person present.

Volkov, with an air of sophistication, twirled the remnants of his champagne in the exquisite crystal flute, then caught the butler's attention and made a commanding gesture.

"Bring me my phone." The butler, well-versed in the nuances of his employer's demands, nodded and left the room.

In just a few moments, he came back into the room, holding the sleek, black device with both hands. Volkov accepted it with a nod, his expression hardening as he contemplated the call he was about to make.

The butler, understanding that Volkov was about to make a call that he had no right to hear, retreated to the background without uttering a single word.

Volkov unlocked the phone, his fingers navigating to the contacts.

His gaze distant, he hesitated for a moment, contemplating his decision, before dialing the number for the Blackguards.

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