Savik has been sleep-deprived for almost a month now. His previously quiet and peaceful neighborhood, which had already been divided up among the various gangs and corporations, was now in chaos. First, there were the killings of the workers from "Happiness," followed by the shooting of a gang member at a new barbershop. While one might have dismissed these as mere coincidences, a notary from the "Red Lanterns" then visited the station to report the disappearance of one of their best fighters, Yurand Kovalsky, a man who had already gone through military service and had fought in both the Middle East and shrapnel.

It was clear that a new, yet-to-be-revealed gang had made its appearance in the area. The "Red Lanterns" had paused and were preparing for war. Savik's boss was constantly breathing down his neck, pressuring the department every Monday, but the calm before the storm persisted. At times, Savik would gaze up at the moon and hope that it would all soon pass. However, his experience told him otherwise. The longer the lull, the greater the impending storm would be.

***

After the success of my barbershop, I quickly became the talk of the town. People from all walks of life flocked to me, including skilled hairstylists who had previously rejected my offers but were now eager to work at my new "No Food" locations. Even real estate investors who had once dreamed of renting out their basements for pennies were now seeing millions in profit. And of course, there were always the adventurous ones willing to sell anything for a fraction of the profit. The only group that seemed to stay away were the new gang members, which gave me the opportunity to make the most of this time.

As the months passed, we opened two to three locations every month, including men's "No Food", women's "Grey Fur", and a variety of pastry shops and cafes. My terms were far better than those offered by the "Happiness" corporation, which was doing similar things all over the world. My inventive gimmicks, like free candies in the coffee shop, brought in just as many people as national TV ads. Seeing the smiles on customers' faces as they grabbed a candy and came in for a cup before work every day made me feel like I was doing something right.

Meanwhile, the servers I had launched continued to creak, collecting all the information I had gathered. My greedy hands had managed to reach gigabytes of electronic libraries and forum caches in various languages. It seemed that I had crossed the first border on this path. The quantity of data had turned into quality, and my neural network was beginning to stand out from local analogues.

Feeling confident, I pulled out my phone and performed the usual check on the go:

"Finish the phrase. Sasha was walking along the highway and sucking..."

Previously, my AI had worked sequentially, picking the next word based on the previous one and relying on the most common option it had seen. But today, it seemed that my AI was able to evaluate the entire phrase, and the answer it gave was surprisingly appropriate: "A lollipop."

"Alexander Mouse," an elderly lady with a rat's tail on the back of her neck called out my name, and I quickly rose to my feet. Today, I had been summoned to the reception of the Moscow governor to explain the network of establishments that I had created. Almost forgot, in this world, ordinary people work for corporations not because they are fools but because there is no other choice. I didn't quite understand the connection with the emergence of superpowers, but the bottom line was that you either work for someone else or, at best, for yourself. Small and medium-sized businesses are out of luck. Now it was time to see if all the precautions I had taken for this scenario would work.

"Good day, your excellency," I entered the office and politely bowed my head to the imposing figure standing in front of the window. The term "excellency" was customary in the Russian Empire to designate one of the senior members of the Romanov family responsible for overseeing Moscow. In front of me stood not only a high-ranking official but also the uncle of the tsar himself, Konstantin Nikolaevich Romanov.

A cough came from the corner of the room, and I looked over to see a short man with balding temples hunched over in a leather chair. I recognized him too. He was the former Count Orlov, stripped of his title but making a successful career in the legal field. The agent of "Happiness" corporation- well, I had suspected all along whom I had stepped on the tail of, but now there were no more doubts.

"So, Alexander Sergeyevich," the prince called me by my first name and patronymic, "you are accused of violating the Treaty. Before passing such a case to the court, I usually give the parties the opportunity to negotiate without resorting to extremes."

"We are willing to drop the charges against Mr. Mouse, provided that he hands over all aspects of his business related to our operations to the 'Happiness' corporation," declared the 'Happiness' agent. I couldn't help but think that the corporation's demands were audacious, but I was comforted by the fact that the prince clearly had no fondness for Orlov, which worked in my favor.

"Before we proceed hastily," I interjected, producing a stack of documents and extending them to Konstantin Nikolaevich, "I would like to present examples of all the contracts I have entered into and the flow of funds through the accounts."

"But we need not delve into that," Orlov scowled. "If you insist, then let the court examine everything..."

He stopped himself mid-sentence, catching the prince's eye. It seemed as though he had grown accustomed to working with those who held greater power, not only over himself, but also over the corporation that supported him.

"We don't need to read them, but could you summarize in a few words?" the prince encouraged me.

"The company that I established, 'Horizon,' which encompasses all of the points opened by our family, is not intended to generate profit. It receives a share of each transaction, but 100% of this amount is invested exclusively in development."

"How does that change anything?!" Orlov lashed out once more, before catching the prince's eye again and continuing in a more composed tone. "As the owner, you still profit."

"As the owner, I only receive the same amount as my partners. I earn no more than a worker of the same rank as the average earnings of the masters at each point."

"So, technically speaking, you're a lone wolf who's playing the role of not just one of the hairdressers, but also that of the director. And there's no traditional hierarchy," the prince offered his assistance. "But I don't see any violation of the Agreement in this, as long as the money stays in 'Horizon's' accounts and isn't used for personal purposes. By the way, why did you choose that name?"

"It's because of horizontal connections," I explained. "In a world where the vertical power structure is already dominated by corporations and people like you, only horizontal connections can really help the common folks."

I knew my response was bold, but I had been asked a question and felt compelled to answer. To my surprise, Konstantin Nikolaevich didn't seem offended at all.

"Well then, I consider this matter closed. Let's see how this initiative unfolds - whether it leads to the creation of a new corporation or something truly extraordinary," he said with a hint of irony in his voice.

His words felt like a challenge to me. While I had initially wanted to bend the rules and create a new corporation, maybe it was time to aim for something even greater. After all, I had been given a second chance in this world.

"I'll do my best," I said with a determined nod.

"Then consider your application for the opening of a shopping center on Kolomenskaya Embankment approved," the prince replied unexpectedly, revealing that he knew far more about my business and plans than I had realized.

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It became clear to me why he hadn't bothered to read through any of my documents - he had already been briefed on everything in advance. However, he didn't know about Arya or our sparring partner from the basement; otherwise, our conversation would have taken a different turn.

"Thank you," I said with a final bow before leaving his office. It was time to get to work.

***

As soon as the young Mouse had left and the door closed behind him, Orlov abandoned his facade of a loyal subject and rose from his seat. After all, as a representative of one of the world's largest corporations, he had the right to speak his mind.

"Prince, are you not concerned that you are taking on too much? No matter what you say here, it will be a breach of the Agreement. If this situation becomes known on the international stage, how will you or even the Tsar justify it?" Orlov said.

"Are you daring to threaten me?" The prince's presence filled the room and pushed the corporation's representative back into his chair. "Do not forget your place. And let it be known, if I discover that you have decided to go against my word, I will take it as a personal offense."

"Why do you favor this commoner so much?" Orlov's gaze fell to the ground, realizing that it may not be the right time to challenge the prince's actions.

"Have you been to his establishments?" the prince inquired unexpectedly. "I have visited them myself, and those fish of his that eat the old skin off your heels - they are something else. My daughter enjoyed it, so let him continue."

"But what if he takes it too far?" Orlov's face contorted into a wicked grin.

"Then the time will come for scavengers like you," the prince retorted.

The former count recoiled from the prince's words as if he had been slapped, but he remained silent, unwilling to challenge the prince again - at least not yet.

***

As I left the governor's residence, a stunning house with a charming little garden located on Mohovaya Street, my eyes were drawn to a sleek, high-end car parked slightly off to the side with the emblem of the "Speed" corporation. I remembered seeing it earlier when I had arrived, and my hunch was that it belonged to Orlov.

Without thinking, I strode past the vehicle, and then something caught my eye: a small chicken bone. It had been given to me by Arya as a means of locating me in case of trouble, and I couldn't resist stashing it away in the snow that had accumulated behind the car's wheels. I wasn't sure how it worked, but I was willing to believe in the clever orcish tricks that pervaded the world of superheroes. And if all went well, perhaps I could pay a courtesy visit to the former count.

To avoid suspicion, I kept walking at a steady pace, recalling how I had stashed a potato in my uniform that morning along with an egg and some salt. It had been a convenient snack to munch on when there was no time for a proper meal. But now, a new idea had taken hold of me. Was it foolish? Perhaps. But then again, I figured that they wouldn't take me seriously for such a harmless prank.

With a sudden resolve, I spun around and dug into my backpack. As I passed by the car once more, I quickly shoved the potato into its exhaust pipe. I felt a sense of giddy satisfaction as I sat down on a nearby bench to await the results.

Before long, Orlov emerged from the building, paying no attention to the people trying to engage him in conversation. He headed straight for the car, turned the key, and then... something unexpected happened. The security system began to wail.

"External security breach detected! Unknown poisonous substance attack detected!" The car, it seemed, wasn't as smart as its flashy exterior suggested. The exhaust had been blocked, and chaos ensued.

As the car continued to blare its warning to the entire street, I could see Orlov’s agitated, red face through the window. He seemed unfazed by the possibility of an attack, but he was clearly uncomfortable with the throngs of bystanders who were now filming his humiliation. “The doors are locked for the safety of the object. The ‘Protection’ group has been called. A complete scan of the car is being conducted to search for new threats!” Suddenly, just as I was beginning to think that Arya’s chicken bone had actually worked, the car’s hood abruptly popped open. A brilliant crystal emerged, and an electric field began to emanate from it, enveloping the cars in its wake. Simultaneously, the same electrical discharges stripped away the paint, and some of the steel elements of the body twisted under the voltage. “Looks like the prank worked,” I grinned and waved to Orlov, who had noticed me.

***

Orlov caught sight of Mouse waving at him, and although he couldn't explain how, he knew that he was responsible for everything that had transpired. The country's only latest model Mercedes had met a foolish end, but he wasn't too concerned; he would milk every last ruble out of them. If only he could get to the boy, but he knew better than to tangle with the king's uncle. He decided to bide his time; Mishkin would eventually lose his appeal, and then he would make him pay.

"Unrelenting astral impact detected! Shield power level exceeding safety limits!" the security system that had taken over continued to bark orders.

"Abort! Stop!" Orlov struggled to break free, but the new car had not yet been linked to his voice.

"Warning! Protective shield elements could penetrate the vehicle. Warning! Involuntary relaxation of the organism may occur in case of penetration. Assume a comfortable position."

A comfortable position? Orlov pulled the handle with all his might. Where were the "Protection" guys when he needed them? Unfortunately, the car's frame, despite all the damage, was not budging. Suddenly, a lone charge slipped inside through a crack in the windshield. It ran down Orlov's leg, causing little pain, but his body stopped responding, and his consciousness began to fade.

"I shouldn't have worn a white suit today..." Orlov thought, his last cogent thought.

Then, the Igigi arrived. They deactivated the car, lifted him out, and turned him around to face the hundreds of phones that couldn't believe their luck. If only Orlov had been conscious, he could have done something, but he was helpless in their grasp.

***

I inquired of Arya about why Orlov was dubbed the Brown Count when I stumbled upon a newspaper detailing the incident a few months later.

"Perhaps it's the hue of rust? You know, like he was a former soldier, and now his weapons are rusting..." Arya mused, stretching her arms.

While the nightly training sessions with our captive had done well to distract her and get her in shape, I had a sense that she would soon crave more. I hoped that I would be ready by then; otherwise, if Arya found out... There would be many inquiries, and I had grown accustomed to my green-hued sister.

"Speaking of which, your servers have been rather silent lately," the girl nearly toppled over the hard drive rack.

"They completed the second stage of training," I clarified, pulling up the interface window. "Take a look, let's perform a test... The orc devoured a cockroach. It was swift. The orc devoured a cockroach. It was scrumptious. What's the difference between 'it' in these sentences?"

"What's so challenging about that?" Arya queried. "The orc was clearly swift because it caught the cockroach. And the cockroach was delicious because it's an insect that gathers nutrients."

While the latter point could be disputed, I concurred.

"That's correct," I nodded. "Living beings respond readily to such logical snares and don't make mistakes. However, computers... I verified that the locals only guess the correct answer in thirty percent of instances. They guess. In my world, ten years ago, it was the same. My previous AI managed to increase the success rate to seventy percent, and now it should be hovering around ninety."

Sure enough, the right answer materialized before me.

"I don't get it," the orc said, still puzzled.

"Well, you can easily find answers to some questions on the internet, but here, you have to build a whole world in your head to arrive at a conclusion. You have to gather all the words, put them together, and create a whole picture. Without that, you can't create a proper artificial intelligence," I clarified.

"But you managed to do it?" Arya asked, still not fully invested in the topic.

"Yes, I did," I confirmed.

"And are you going to give it a name?"

"Valera," I replied with a nod.

"Why that name?" Arya inquired.

"Because it's time for it, and also... I need to get some rest. Tomorrow is the opening of our shopping center, and we need to look our best," I explained.

"Our shopping center? Did I hear you right? Are you taking me out in public?" Arya threw her hands behind her back, stretched, and her already sizable breasts seemed to grow even larger.

"Yes, I am. I want you to see everything with your own eyes. And there will be a special surprise there just for you," I revealed.

The orc's eyes lit up - she was already accustomed to the fact that I never made empty promises. So it had to be something truly exciting.

***

Fat Sam had always been his own boss, having grown up selling pies with his parents and continuing the business through his schooling and into college. They delivered their baked goods on old, creaking carts, passed down from his grandfather. Despite the modest earnings, they persevered until the onslaught of corporations who slowly squeezed out small businesses like theirs. Then, a couple of years ago, a mysterious stranger, the first of the "Don't Eat" movement, appeared. Sam was skeptical at first but was surprised to see a neighbor open a shop in the first "Fat Tummy" and quickly pay off all her loans.

Still, Fat Sam hesitated until the auction for spots in the new shopping center "Gray Friend" began. He couldn't resist and made a bid, which proved to be a wise decision. He secured a spot with everything he needed to store and sell his pies, and the area was also bustling with other food vendors, ensuring plenty of foot traffic.

As the fireworks exploded and the music began to play, visitors began streaming in by the hundreds. They bought pies and marveled at the unusually thin crust and juicy fillings that no one else could match in this part of Moscow. In just one hour, Sam earned more than he typically made in a week. Despite his success, he couldn't shake his fear of being cheated and began to fuss, accidentally hitting a fragile girl behind the neighboring counter.

She, too, was a baker, but her clients never smiled the way they did after tasting Sam's pies. Despite his apology, the girl gave him an icy look and pushed him aside before landing a hard punch in his stomach. Dazed and bewildered, Sam struggled to his feet, wondering if the owner of "Gray Friend" could help him.

He quickly dialed a long number and spoke with an assistant before a young man named Lex and a blonde woman in a wheelchair arrived to assist him.