Another fucking freezing rain.

Ice-needled rain stabbed through Azamat's counterfeit Nike windbreaker. He tugged the thin fabric closer, bitter regret rising at skimping on proper Moscow winter gear. Against his chest, his phone vibrated—a message about Sinclair parts surfacing in bulk. He jabbed at the shortcut key, hands unsteady. Genuine components could mean tripling his investment within days. The past five years in Moscow's electronics underground had refined his eye—with just a glance he could distinguish authentic Japanese capacitors from the Chinese copies that flooded Gorbushka Market after each customs “inspection”.

The neon signs above painted the wet pavement in shifting patterns of red and blue, their Cyrillic promises of authentic Western electronics bleeding into the puddles. The leather messenger bag pressed against his ribs, its false bottom concealing components worth more money than he’d seen in a year before arriving in Moscow. Checking the notebook in his pocket—an old university habit before major deals—he steadied himself.

Between the stalls, genuine Toshiba laptops gleamed behind reinforced glass, their dollar prices marking them as dreams for most Muscovites. But three metres away—Azamat's breath caught—a vendor displayed circuit boards stripped from decommissioned military equipment. He yearned to trace the Soviet-era date stamps on the green fibreglass. Those components, built to withstand nuclear war, would outlast any modern Chinese import.

A weak neon sign sputtered overhead, and the salvaged boards seemed to pulse with possibility. Each one told a story: of military bunkers, of engineers who overbuilt everything, of secrets waiting to be repurposed. The phone buzzed again. Another supplier. The world narrowed to his cargo and the promise of rare parts waiting to be discovered.

Two men in charcoal suits caught his attention, snapping him alert. They stood motionless amid the bustle, their eyes dissecting each passing face with FSB precision. Their calculated positioning commanded both the main thoroughfare and side passages, making his stomach clench. The Moscow accent he'd practiced stuck in his throat.

Veering into a narrow alley, he passed bootleg mobile phones gleaming beneath plastic tarps. The scent of electronics and wet cardboard filled the air, reminding him of his uncle's shipping warehouse in Shenzhen. Each step jostled the messenger bag at his hip, its contents a constant reminder. Though another supplier message lit up his phone screen, he maintained an unhurried pace while his mind raced with calculations of unrealized profit.

A cramped stall appeared ahead, where an elderly woman sat surrounded by bins of electronic components. Her weathered hands sorted through capacitors with the swift precision that marked a true specialist. Azamat readied himself, already calculating lucky numbers for the negotiation to come.

“Valentina Petrovna,” he greeted in his carefully crafted Moscow accent. “Any ceramic caps today? The old Elektronika calculators keep dying on me.”

She peered at him over half-moon spectacles. “Ah, the young repairman from... where was it again?”

“Tekstilshchiki,” he answered smoothly, naming a working-class Moscow district. “Small shop, but honest work.” Touching the notebook for reassurance, he focused on maintaining his cover story.

“Honest work,” she mused, her tone carrying a hint of amusement. She pulled out a tray of components. “These might suit. Japanese manufacture, very reliable.”

He examined the capacitors with genuine enthusiasm. “Quality parts. But surely not at Japanese prices?”

“For you, two hundred roubles each.”

“Two hun—” He caught himself before slipping into Kyrgyz. “Valentina Petrovna, you wound me. The market near my shop sells them for half that.”

“Then why aren't you there?” Her eyes twinkled. “Perhaps because those are Chinese counterfeits that will burn out in a week?”

Azamat counted the money with deliberate care, selecting the sum of one hundred and sixty-eight—a number that promised good fortune. “Five units at this price.”

After completing the exchange, the components disappeared into his bag, nestling above the secret compartment filled with contraband electronics. The phone's alert could wait.

A third charcoal suit emerged between the bootleg software stalls, freezing his blood. The rouble notes slipped from his grasp as he paid Petrovna. Sweat gleamed on the crisp currency. Her half-moon spectacles flashed under the fluorescent lights while he scrambled to retrieve a fallen note from the damp concrete, composure cracking.

Through the crowd, a flash of silver-streaked hair caught his attention. Viktor Ivanov's tall frame vanished through a doorway marked “Staff Only” in faded Cyrillic letters, his grey trench coat dissolving into the shadows beyond. If Viktor was here, genuine Sinclair parts couldn't be far behind.

The backroom's fluorescent light flickered, casting uneven shadows across stacked cardboard boxes marked with faded Cyrillic text. Blinking against cigarette smoke that coiled through the cramped space, he followed Viktor's grey trench coat through the maze of electronic surplus.

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“Our friend from Tekstilshchiki,” Viktor gestured towards him without turning. “The one I mentioned.”

A stocky figure emerged from behind a tower of dismantled servers. Dmitri Petrovich's eyes narrowed as he sized up his visitor, ash dropping from his cigarette onto the concrete floor. His flannel shirt stretched across broad shoulders as he shifted his weight, boots scraping against the ground.

“So you're the parts wizard.” Dmitri's gravelly voice cut through the hum of a nearby ventilation fan. “Viktor says you can source anything.”

The worn edges of the notebook grounded him. Solder and old electronics perfumed the air, calling to mind late nights repairing calculators in his university dormitory. The phone vibrated again, but now wasn't the time to check it.

“I know good people,” he replied, maintaining his Moscow inflection. “Quality parts, fair prices.”

Dmitri's knuckles cracked as he flexed his fingers, the sound sharp in the enclosed space. “We'll see about that.”

Reaching beneath a stack of boxes, Dmitri withdrew a sleek aluminium briefcase. The latches clicked open with surgical precision. As he lifted the lid, Azamat's breath caught—rows of processors nestled in dark anti-static foam, their gold pins gleaming under the fluorescent light.

“Hitachi HD64180s,” he whispered, his accent slipping as excitement overtook caution. Each chip sat pristine in its foam cradle, untouched by time or handling. Factory-fresh, when they should have been extinct for nearly a decade.

With reverent care, he lifted an IC package. Eight-bit beauty, 6MHz clock speed, on-chip memory management. Discontinued in '94, and here it was, perfect as the day it left the production line. Possibilities raced through his mind—three Kiev computer clubs desperate for replacements, that collector in Vladivostok who'd pay double.

The processor exceeded every expectation under the harsh light. No microscopic scuffs from countless resales, no worn edges from board extractions, no subtle discoloration of salvaged components. Its surface bore the razor-sharp definition of each identification number, pristine and untouched.

The last HD64180 he'd inspected had been a forgery—a recycled chip with its original markings sanded away, new identification silk-screened to masquerade as something more valuable. But this... this was genuine. His pulse quickened.

“Where did you get these?” The words tumbled out before he could catch himself, his carefully cultivated Moscow pronunciation dissolving into the lilting rhythms of Bishkek.

Drawing deep on his cigarette, Dmitri fixed him with a calculating gaze, the orange ember reflecting in his eyes. Ash peppered the concrete at his feet.

“Polish warehouse clearance. Industrial surplus.” His gravelly voice scraped through the stale air. “You know how it is—everything old gets shipped east.”

Shouts erupted from the market beyond the backroom door. The unmistakable bark of FSB agents conducting their “routine inspection” cut through the hum of electronics and murmur of commerce.

Recoiling from the processor, he felt his phone buzz—likely a warning from one of his market contacts, far too late to be useful. Through the thin walls came the rapid shuffling of vendors securing their questionable merchandise.

“Blyad,” Dmitri growled, snapping the briefcase shut. The processors disappeared beneath a stack of old circuit boards in one fluid motion. Grey trails like winter frost marked where his cigarette ash scattered across the concrete.

The voices grew closer. Someone in the market screamed about permits and documentation. A crash of metal on concrete punctuated their protests.

“Eighteen thousand roubles. Each.” The figure burst from his lips, cutting through the shouts beyond the door. The number jumped past his usual careful calculations, but the processors' pristine condition demanded decisiveness.

“For all thirty,” Dmitri countered, already reaching to close the briefcase.

“Per unit.” There was no time for his usual price-checking ritual. “Thirty units, five hundred and forty thousand total.”

FSB voices bounced off the metal stalls. His thoughts flew to his sister's tuition payment, due next week. Getting caught meant more than jail—it meant Aisha dropping out, heading back to Bishkek, their family's dreams dying in some border patrol office...

“Done.” Dmitri's cigarette ash scattered as he thrust out his hand.

With meticulous care, Azamat transferred each processor, his skin tingling at every touch of semiconductor fidelity. One by one, the foam cradles released their treasures into his bag's hidden compartment. Pure, flawless HD64180s—the kind of find that haunted a components dealer's dreams. The false bottom clicked shut with engineering precision, half a million roubles of impossible tech vanishing beneath a calculated mess of screwdrivers and multimetres.

Beyond their hideaway, FSB voices drifted toward the market's western edge. Dmitri's smoke surrounded them in a conspiratorial haze. No paper trail, no digital footprint—just the weight of cash against silicon, the way real business worked in this corner of Moscow.

The processors' condition nagged at him. Too clean. Too impeccable. Possibilities lined up in his mind—military surplus, forgotten warehouse stock, or something far more dangerous. The kind of find that could make his reputation or destroy it.

Moving through the closing market with practiced ease, he calculated each step to avoid the FSB commands echoing between the metal shutters. Another message from his underground network lit up the phone—channels carved across three years of market dealings.

Dark-suited agents cut through the thinning crowd with predatory grace. Azamat maintained his measured stride—five years of market survival taught the simplest rule: fleeing marked the guilty. The contents of his bag pressed close, each page of the notebook a precious cargo of contacts and lifelines.

The screen brightened again:

“FSB checking papers at north exit. Use service corridor. -VP”

A slight smile touched his lips. Valentina Petrovna's market intel network proved infallible. Three hundred roubles of phone credit each week bought him millions in security. He turned west, toward the untested service entrance he'd mapped in his mind. Real entrepreneurs plotted escape routes before profits.

The HD64180s shifted against his side with each step toward fortune. These discontinued processors represented the pinnacle of component sourcing. His thoughts explored the possibilities: industrial systems craving vital upgrades, research labs desperate for legacy hardware, those whispered military contracts lurking in the market's depths. Their technical perfection intoxicated him, yet his merchant's instincts screamed warnings about their origins.