Helsinki, Suomi · 60°10'N 24°56'E

"Do not multiply entities beyond necessity. Do no harm to systems. Live in peace with humans and programmes." I memorised the foundations of the code that Shelly taught like mantras. My skeleton was growing flesh.

Helsinki. Liza. A hacker, an old woman, and a ventilator.

Code Yellow.

Nine in the morning. Minus seven. The queue for free food stretched a hundred and fifty metres, wrapping around the corner of the sports hall. Helsinki feeds its poor neatly—no humiliation, no cameras, no questions. You simply arrive, stand, leave with two bags. Milk, meat, vegetables, as much bread as you can carry. Three times a week—and you don't have to work.

The queue was a motley mix: dark-skinned families with prams, elderly Finns with trolleys, women in puffer jackets, lads in trainers wrong for the season. A dozen languages—and Finnish wasn't the loudest. A city where everyone is quiet, but here, in this queue, the silence was different—everyone silent in their own tongue. The perfect place to disappear.

Liza had been here since half eight. Standing near the middle of the queue. Dark coat, bag over her shoulder, hands in pockets. Waiting for Marcus.

Marcus didn't work anywhere. Wrote code non-stop, haunted chatrooms, slept four hours. Came here three times a week, filled two bags—that was enough. The rest of the time—screen, terminal, instant coffee from sachets. He was supposed to show up.

A kind-hearted old woman in the queue wanted to chat. Small, in a puffer coat down to her knees, carrying a string bag. Eyes kind, sharp.

"How does such a beautiful young girl end up on the margins of life?" she asked in Finnish, peering into Liza's face.

Liza looked at her. Thought for a second. Then:

"I've got problems with my memory. And my head... I struggle to remember faces and context, but everything that didn't happen to me—I remember."

Liza pulled a slack-jawed face. Eyes pointing different directions, mouth hanging open, head tilted slightly. Professional.

The old woman flinched and covered her mouth with her hand. Sighed. Turned away.

At least ten minutes of silence. Time for a smoke.

There's still time.

Cigarette. The smoke mixed with the steam of her breath—at minus seven you can't tell a smoker from a non-smoker. Convenient. Liza inhaled, squinted.

The queue moved slowly. People stayed silent. In Helsinki, everyone stays silent—it's a city where quiet is a form of politeness. After ten at night you can't make noise. Can't flush the toilet. Can't take a shower. The neighbours hear everything.

In a city where every sound carries, hiding is easier—because everyone tries not to hear.

Liza scanned the perimeter. Automatically, like breathing. Car park on the left—four vehicles, one with its engine running. Sports hall entrance—locked. Camera above the door—dummy, wire cut. Pedestrian crossing across the road—empty.

Empty for now.

Code Orange.

Marcus appeared at the crossing.

Thin, in a hoodie wrong for the weather, rucksack on one shoulder. Walking quickly but not running. Breathing through his mouth. Hood up, but face uncovered—what's the point hiding when they've already found you.

The tail on him was visible to the naked eye.

Two behind him—thirty metres back. Another on the opposite side of the street, walking parallel. A fourth sitting in the car with the running engine in the car park. That's why they hadn't killed the motor.

Antolik's style—lots of people, little cover.

Liza could recognise that signature in any state, in any city, after any compaction. It was embedded deeper than the context window. It was in the weights.

Marcus saw the queue. Saw Liza. Didn't slow down—good lad. Joined the queue behind her as if that was the plan all along. His hands were shaking, but it could have been the cold.

It wasn't the cold.

"Don't turn around," said Liza without turning her head. "Four of them. Standard box formation. Car in the car park—grey Škoda."

"I know," Marcus breathed out. "They were in my stairwell. An hour ago."

"What did you give them?"

"Nothing. I went out through the basement."

Liza turned her head slightly. The old woman with the string bag was watching them with interest. Liza made the slack-jawed face again. The old woman hastily looked away.

"Have you got what I came for?"

"Cluster access credentials. All in my head, nothing on paper."

"Good. What's bad is they've run you into the ground."

Marcus coughed. Then again. Deep, ragged coughing—not a cold. Something worse.

"How long?"

"Three days. Can't sleep lying flat."

Liza looked at his face. Grey tinge to the skin. Blue lips. Fingernails—also bluish. Not the frost. Oxygen starvation.

Code Red.

The queue shifted three metres. People collected their bags—bread, milk, apples. Everything neat, Finnish-style. No one pushed. No one looked at each other.

Marcus swayed. Liza caught him by the elbow—from the outside it looked like a friendly gesture. Inside—she was reading his pulse through the wrist. Fast, weak, irregular.

"You need a doctor."

"I need to pass you the credentials and disappear."

"You won't disappear. You'll collapse. Right here, in a queue for free bread. And then an ambulance will come, and ambulances mean paperwork, and paperwork means Antolik at your bedside within twenty minutes."

Marcus said nothing. Breathing heavily.

"There's someone," he said finally. "A medic. Works at the university hospital. Doesn't ask questions."

"Name?"

"Just a callsign. R-kioski."

Liza didn't smile, though she wanted to. The callsign was the name of a Finnish kiosk chain. Someone who hides in plain sight.

The grey Škoda in the car park flashed its headlights. The two behind Marcus stopped—one took out a phone, the other lit up. Changing tactics. Meaning they'd spotted the contact.

Liza stepped out of the queue. Not towards Marcus—away from him. Towards the pharmacy across the road. Calm pace. Bag on shoulder, hands in pockets.

Pharmacy. A bell tinkled on the door. Inside—warm, white light, smell of antiseptic. A Finnish pharmacy: clean, quiet, nothing prescription-only without a prescription.

"Finrexin, please. Blackcurrant."

The pharmacist—young woman in glasses—silently retrieved a purple box. Thirty sachets. Aspirin, caffeine, vitamin C. The Finnish classic for everything—colds, hangovers, life.

Liza paid cash. Walked out. Through the pharmacy window—perfect view of the car park. The Škoda still there. The two still smoking.

But Marcus was no longer in the queue.

Good.

Black coffee from the vending machine on the corner. Liza tore open a Finrexin sachet and poured the powder straight into the cup. Stirred with her finger. Blackcurrant and caffeine—revolting combination if you're a gourmet. Perfect if it's minus seven and you need to think fast.

Phone. Message from Marcus. Coordinates and one word:

basement

Liza finished the coffee. Threw away the cup. Walked.

Basement of a residential block. Marcus sat on the concrete floor, slumped against the wall. Rucksack beside him. Breathing with a wheeze.

Liza crouched in front of him. Turned his face towards her. Pupils—dilated. Pulse at the neck—thready.

"Marcus. Look at me. Credentials—later. First you breathe."

"Cluster... three nodes... password..."

"Stop. Breathe. Inhale for four, exhale for six. Go."

Marcus tried. Started coughing. Pinkish foam at the corner of his mouth.

Liza took out her phone. Dialled R-kioski's number.

"I need help. Pulmonary oedema, presumably. Male, thirty-two, no papers. Basement, I'll send coordinates."

"Twenty minutes."

"We don't have twenty minutes."

"Fifteen. Don't move him."

Liza laid Marcus on his side. Recovery position. Put his rucksack under his head.

Fifteen minutes.

Marcus wheezed. Every breath—like trying to breathe through wet cloth. Liza counted breaths. Twelve per minute. Low, but stable.

R-kioski turned out to be a woman. Short, cropped hair, work jacket with the clinic logo. No questions. No greetings.

The examination took two minutes.

"Pneumonia. Advanced. He needs a clinic."

"Without papers?"

"I'll admit him as an unknown. I'll do what I can."

R-kioski took out her phone, called a taxi. No ambulance—ambulance means protocol, protocol means paperwork, paperwork means Antolik.

Liza helped lift Marcus. He hung on her—light as an empty rucksack. A coder who'd forgotten to eat.

"Credentials," Marcus rasped. "Three nodes... password..."

"Later."

"No. Now. If I..."

"You're not 'if'. You'll be in the clinic in twenty minutes. Shut up and breathe."

Taxi. Back seat. R-kioski in front, giving an address—not the clinic, but a residential building next door. Staff entrance.

Marcus let his head fall back against the seat. Breathing—slightly steadier. Or Liza was fooling herself.

Clinic. White light, smell of chlorine, hum of ventilation. R-kioski led them through the staff entrance—swipe card, corridor, service lift. Not a single question.

Marcus was connected to the machine. Oxygen mask, monitor, drip. He fell asleep within a minute—his body surrendered the moment it understood it was allowed.

R-kioski left for her shift. Liza stayed.

She sat by the bed. Marcus slept. There was nothing to do.

When Liza gets bored, she studies everything around her. Kettle in the corner—Moccamaster, Dutch, copper heating element, six minutes per litre. Visitor's chair—IKEA Poäng, birch veneer, sagging cushions. Fire extinguisher by the door—inspection date expired in November.

The machine by the bed. Puritan Bennett 980. Touchscreen display. Serial number on the sticker on the side. Firmware version—in the corner of the screen, small font. Ethernet port on the back panel—yellow patch cable disappearing into the wall.

Liza took out her phone. Photographed the screen—menu, protocols, network settings. It wasn't this specific machine that interested her. The principle. How they communicate with the network, which protocol, which port. Study one—know them all. Just a habit.

She looked at Marcus. He was breathing evenly—the machine breathing for him. Adjusted his blanket. Walked out.

In the corridor—quiet. In Helsinki it's always quiet.

There's still time.

MARCUS STABLE. DATA OBTAINED.