Hard to tell if he's genuinely worried about being exposed, or it's just part of the sell.

Definitely not. Operants cannot allow themselves to have such a vulnerability.

He's scanning you, as he has scanned many before.

A coded question. He needs to be let 'in' enough on the details to be willing to open himself up to risk.

No need to spill your guts, though, operant.

His posture spells it out: not at the moment, at least.

His right pant pocket creases around something narrow and weighty. A switchblade.

He's not lying, but it's not your lines he's interested in.

A high ranking member of the military, sworn to protect the Rustamian head of state -- back when the Dream of Rustam still was a state.

The bullet by your heart twitches, then stills.

A dash of nonsense to disarm you while he runs a checklist.

It's not the lines he cares about. Only your reactions to his reactions.

Could be another of his sales pitches. Could be...

People like him have an intuition for things like this. Mystic knowledge, passed down through the generations... this isn't good news.

The past you can account for... but the future?

Thud in your chest. Heart skipped a beat.

78mm barrel. Length: 150mm, maximum. Fifteen round magazine. And, crucially: the trigger's click must feel nice.

Massive. We want it big enough to drop something with hooves.

There are many crimes you may commit; none worse than mediocre aesthetics.

Steel. Superior feedback -- every bullet shuddering, while you remain still.

Go for polymer. You'll move with it, not against it.

Safety. No impact on performance, and it makes a really nice 'click' too.

A leash? No thanks.

You need to merge with the gun in your palm. Become one.

Something to keep your arm steady when it gets heated. Ultimate stability.

Keeping it quiet wouldn't go amiss.

Out of the question. He must be able to get you something sooner than that.

You sure about this? You already made your own gun.

You sure about this? You could just make your dream piece instead.

At the Novessa Greenhouse, you and the other would-be operants were trained on steel. There's something comforting in the familiarity.

No cologne this time -- only a faint, metallic scent.

Funny. Didn't seem like he had any problems asking that.

His balance is off today. He's favouring his left leg, like the right one can't be trusted. Like it hurts.

Old Viúdas shifted around him. There was a route traced for him, but he veered off. Around the corner, a car kept waiting, engine ticking. In the trunk: carpet and old rope.

He's tired. The kind of tired that comes from getting through the wrong version of the night.

Does his story hold?

That's it. Play up the damsel in distress angle, it's his weak spot.

After a moment, his face drops as he realises what he has to do.

Triple-stitched premium nylon. Expensive.

Manufactured in Kino's Gambit. Slide coated in dark-grey finish. Fixed barrels, ported. Machined for high-accuracy pressure.

The killer inside you grins.

He came through.

The look of a kid pretending to be an adult in a room full of consequences.

Now it's all done, everything in him hopes that his concession will earn him a place in your heart.

And just like that, warmth radiates from him once more. If only it were that easy for you.

STATE-ISSUED, LOOTED OFF A CORPSE, OR SELF-PRODUCED. THAT IS HOW YOU GET A GUN. WRITE IT DOWN.

You agreed to the amount. You paid upfront. It's on him to take the loss.

His trigger finger twitches.

The tension before a stand-off is known to him, engrained.

While he looks relaxed, his elbows and knees are locked, deliberately tensed like a spring.

Checks