You have been granted conditional clearance to review the enclosed document. This authorization has been issued under Clause 11-B of the Consent Codex, pertaining to Voluntary Exposure to Restricted Narrative Constructs (commonly referred to as "stories").
As you proceed, please note:
By continuing beyond this page, you legally affirm your right to witness violence, complicity in emotional distress, and nonbinding consent to all acts performed within the text.
You waive the right to moral objection.
You acknowledge that resurrection voids warranty.
This document contains sensitive material related to:
✔️ Contractual Assasination
✔️ Ritualized intimacy
✔️ Culinary Violations
✔️ Precedents of illegal resurrection
✔️ Memory tampering and spiritual
fraud
✔️ Emotional trespass under Tier II
compliance
The subject in question is a Class B operative known as Milo Gryn (License ID: HX-31420-G).
He has been reanimated, re-licensed, and reinserted into active protocol.
He does not remember you.
He does not remember himself.
He does, however, remember how to kill.
Contained herein is a record of his most recent assignment, originally framed as a protection contract. The truth is more complicated.
The truth always is.
Should you experience nausea, dissociation, or existential fatigue during review, please consult your assigned Codex Witness Liaison or nearest Consent Broker. Side effects may include moral clarity, sharp grief, hunger, or the urge to burn everything down.
Do not be afraid.
Fear is a contract you do not have to sign.
Enjoy the read.
And remember:
Consent is sacred. Until the Ministry says otherwise.
The armband buzzed softly over the bone of his forearm.
It wasn’t painful, not exactly. Just a low, regulated hum like something waking up under his skin. Milo didn’t need to check. He already knew what it was.
A contract.
Milo didn’t flinch. He paused mid-step, leaned against the kitchenette counter, and checked the screen built into the wall.
Subject: Contract Deployment – Tier I Priority
Status: ACTIVE
Timecode: 05:41 [STAMPED]
Location: Sector 3, Quadrant 12 – Dusk Level
Target: Adam Peregrin
Designation: Civilian – P-CIV [Codex Level: platinum. Assessment: Heretic]
Profession: Chef
Flag: Alleged target of unauthorized hunter
Directive: Escort. Observe. Do not harm. Shadow access enabled. Await trigger signal.
He stared at the Codex Level, the words swimming across his eyes. Heretic, a flaw in the system. A man that goes against everything Milo had been trained for since his rez.
It didn’t matter what he believed in, or what he thought, he wasn’t resurrected to think. He was rezzed to follow MoM’s orders.
MoM’s assessment rang in his mind as the screen shifted, showing him the weather for the day. A platinum heretic. He couldn’t imagine any platinum would be assigned as a heretic. A person that didn’t follow orders, that pushed against MoM. Let alone one that would defer consent.
A person only did that if they knew the outcome wouldn’t matter.
Milo shut the screen off and turned the stove and counter where he had planned to prep a meal he’d been meaning to try out.
Cochinita Pibil.
A tangy and sweet citrusy pulled pork recipe that Milo had been planning to adapt for awhile. Replacing the boneless pork shoulder with the neck of a man he had hunted.
The neck always tasted best. Sweet without trying too hard.
He figured it’d pair well with the marinade.
He sighed. The meat would need to marinate overnight. He learned quickly that things tasted better the more time you gave them to sit. To soak, the spices and the red myoglobin settled into every curve and crevice of the meat. It enhanced the flavor , so it wasn’t a big deal. Just a minor inconvenience. A rupture in the plan.
After washing his hands, he glazed and submerged the meat, wrapped it up, and set it in the fridge:
There was no need to pack for this, he never unpacked. The gun was already under the mattress, cleaned and chambered. The identification chip already synced. The coat was hanging by the door, still stained from the last assignment.
He pulled it on, covering the sleeve of tally marks, the testament to his deadliness. He pulled his hair back, using two Bobby pins to keep it in place, out of his face. The Bobby pins he used was bent from overuse, the only thing he’d kept since the first contract. He didn’t know why. He just never bought another.
Truly he needed to cut his hair, it was getting too long. Which meant it would take longer to manage, but hadn’t had time between contracts.
He didn’t look in the mirror as he passed to the front door, his looks were of little concern to him. If he looked messy, it was all the better. This job was not about the hunt, it was about being discreet. Still, as he walked he caught a glimpse of the golden scar that slashed across the side of his neck. It tingled, almost in acknowledgment, in recognition.
Before he left, he checked his person, tapping his finger with each item he checked off. Gun, back up gun, knife, backup knife.
This was his ritual, there was no fear, no drama, a simple confirmation of his deadliness.
Milo stepped into the elevator, scanned the black steel ring on his middle finger, entrained either his hunter ID, against the interface, and waited as it dropped him to the garage level.
The concrete glowed faintly with the blue-white wash of overhead sensors. The car already knew he was coming.
It opened for him without a sound.
He slid in, scanned the ring again against the ignition panel, and felt the vehicle purr to life beneath him.
Consent Confirmed. ID Synced.
The car didn’t ask questions. Ministry clearance meant it didn’t need to.
A small tone chimed once: Location Verified. Coordinates Acquired. Dusk Level, Sector 3, Quadrant 12. Zone: Green. Estimated Arrival: 12 minutes.
Green Zone. Of course.
All the perks and none of the burden. Optional consent, curated utilities, nullified tracking. Milo stared at the words like they could still be wrong.
He tapped his screen twice. Overlaid a Zone map across the stats. It flickered green where Adam lived, but the borders bled yellow just beneath, then red, then void.
Red Zone – Implied consent. Freely assignable hits. Auctioned lives.
Null – Not recognized as human. Killable by anyone.
He remembered a boy with dust in his lungs, marked yellow, whose death had bought someone else’s second chance.
He remembered a woman with coal-burned skin from the red edge who begged him not to make it fast.
Milo scanned his ring against the panel and gave the command:
“Pull Adam Peregrin file. Full access. Visual overlay.”
A faint chime. And then the air in front of his face shimmered into layered data. Names. Numbers. Codex stats. A headshot, too perfect. Milo leaned back and watched the details unfold across the windshield.
Adam Peregrin
Civilian Class: P-CIV
Codex Level: Platinum
Sector Clearance: Public Figure Exemption
Profession: Chef
Location: Dusk Level, Sector 3, Quadrant 12 Zone: Green
Special Classification: Cultural Asset
Consent Status: Deferred
Access Note: DO NOT HARM. Media
Sensitivity Rating: Red
A chef.
He blinked once.
Platinum. Not for a cure. Not for a confession. Not even for contribution in war or tech or arms development.
For food.
The official note below the classification read:
“Public-facing civilian with elevated status due to culinary and social influence. Special considerations authorized. Contribution to public morale deemed essential.”
Milo closed his eyes for a moment, let the data sink in like a bad taste.
He’d seen surgeons marked orange. Scientists red-banded without appeal. But Adam Peregrin got platinum.
Because he fed the right mouths. Because his name looked good on party menus.
Milo didn’t speak. The silence inside the car felt loud, churning under the surface.
He stared at the man’s photo again.
Perfect skin. No sorrow in the eyes. No edge. The slight hint of bags under his eyes. Just curated charm and good lighting.
He hated him.
Not because he was a monster.
Because he wasn’t.
And because monsters die easier than ornaments.
They’ll call you essential if you’re ornamental enough. And they’ll kill saints if they don’t match the wallpaper.
He didn’t realize he’d whispered that out loud until the screen chirped:
“Repeat query?”
Milo frowned.
“Play the most recent uncorrupted video file.”
A video bloomed across the glass: grainy footage from a market. The camera had been placed high, disguised in the glow-signage of a bakery.
Adam Peregrin didn’t look like a heretic. He looked tired. Human. Hands in his pockets. Hair pulled into a half bun, the sides of his heads were shaved and what wasn’t pulled up laid in waves down Adam’s back. He was laughing with the vendor.
He didn’t appear dangerous. He didn’t look like anything.
Milo exhaled, eyes narrowing.
He didn’t remember him. But something about the footage felt too still. Like the scene had been scrubbed, edited, too clean.
There was a line in the file that stuck out:
Subject previously flagged by Hunter Class operative. Dispute unresolved.
Another flick of the fingers. Milo paused the feed.
“Previously flagged by who?”
No answer. That field had been blacked out.
That was unusual.
A faint tick threaded behind his eye.
The car turned, a smooth left down an empty lane. Milo sat back again, staring at the paused footage.
Adam’s eyes in the image were looking directly at the camera.
