Писатель Илья Розенфельд

The regime is going pear-shaped: President Top Banana and his Second Banana in the inner sanctum. The ceiling fan in the Top Banana’s office was barely moving, thick with the smell of overripe ambition and fermenting fear. The President — a bruised, spotty specimen in a fraying uniform — looked like he was about to go bananas. He knew the score: his regime was going pear-shaped, and the streets were whispering that he’d soon slip on a banana peel. “Sir, the board is restless,” whispered his Second Banana, a firm, lime-green sycophant. “They say you’ve become a lemon. A bad investment.” “Quiet!” the President barked, though his peel was shriveling. “We still have the cash cow. We still have the support of The Out There.” But The Out There didn't provide support; they provided floor space. At the docks, the atmosphere was nutty as a fruitcake.  The Big Cheeses arrive: The syndicate from the Concrete Jungle marking their territory. A massive freighter had just birthed a squad ...

Act 1. Vienna , 1913 Autumn that year was rainy. A small, smoke-filled bar in the center of Vienna smelled of dampness, expensive tobacco, and anxious anticipation. Arthur sat at a corner table. He looked about fifty: an impeccable tweed suit, gray at the temples, calm hands resting on the tabletop. He wasn't drinking. He was observing. Arthur knew the old world was living out its final months. Swords had grown dull, cannons obsolete. The coming century required new management. His gaze slid over the patrons. At the bar, a heavy, corpulent man resembling a prosperous banker was haggling with a waiter. He was dressed to the nines but was greedily finishing off the free nuts. — You shortchanged me by a crown, — he mumbled, wiping greasy lips with a napkin. — Wastefulness will lead this empire to ruin faster than bullets. Arthur nodded to his own thoughts. This was Marcus . A man capable of creating a deficit with a single stroke of a pen. A little further away, by the window,...

In the app, he was called simply "Ch." The car was a black sedan, so polished that it reflected not the street, but the sins of passersby. The interior smelled of ozone and expensive leather . No smell of dampness or mire. The Corporation went through a rebranding back in the 90s. Ch. hated conversations. Not because he was gloomy, as the myths claimed. But because the " Olympus-Taxi " algorithm lowered the rating for "excessive engagement." The rules were strict: Do not look the passenger in the eye (only in the rearview mirror). Do not take tips (payment is deducted automatically: not in money, but in the client's most vivid memory. Reach the destination — and forget your mother's face. Such is the price of fuel). Deliver from Point A (Morgue) to Point B (Distribution) silently. If the rating dropped below 4.5, the driver was stripped of immortality and sent down, to the clients. This was called " Urshan...

"I have little time," the prominent politician nervously fingered his cufflink . "I need a photo. I must be in the ballroom of the Ritz Hotel today, exactly at 20:00. I must look kind and open. It is a matter of life and death." "I understand," the Master replied dryly. He put on his smart glasses and loaded an up-to-date 3D model of the Ritz interior into them. His studio virtually transformed: a virtual grid of columns, crystal chandeliers , and carpet runners lay over the dark curtains. "A little to the left," commanded the Master, moving the light stand. "Imagine there is a Christmas tree to your left." He began to "stitch" the situation from the void. The Master set up tiny light sources so that glares from non-existent candles appeared in the politician's eyes. He added warm backlight simulating the glow of chandeliers. In the glasses, the illusion looked absolutely real. "Now, the main thing," th...

Jacques-Pierre was nobody. A miller's youngest son who inherited not the mill (assets) and not the donkey (transport/logistics), but his father's debts and a ginger cat rumored to be able to open the fridge with his paw. Jacques sat on a worn sofa in a rented apartment on the outskirts, finishing a cheap beer. — "So, what am I supposed to do with you?" he asked, looking at the cat. — "Turn you into a hat?" The cat, whose name was Felix , blinked slowly. Then he stood on his hind legs, adjusted a non-existent tie, and, to Jacques' horror, spoke. His voice was velvet, with the rasp of an experienced lobbyist. — "Turning me into a hat is, monsieur, a one-time solution. Asset depreciation. I propose an investment. Buy me boots."  — "What?" — Jacques choked. — "Boots. Italian, handmade. And a good suit. Give me a month and a credit card, and I will make you the king of this city." "Or at least a marquis. Sounds good...

Prologue The basement smelled of alcohol, dust, and anxiety. Four people were gathered around an old medical chair where a young woman sat with her eyes closed. Her breathing was even, almost inaudible. A man in glasses, who looked like a doctor, monitored the readings on a screen. His face was impassive, but the tension was betrayed by his knuckles, clenched white. “Pulse is stable. Pressure is normal,” he said, more to himself than to the others. Opposite him, leaning against the wall, stood a man in an expensive suit. He wasn't looking at the woman. His gaze was fixed on the numbers on the screen, and it held the cold thrill of a gambler who had placed his final bet. The third, a woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun, was feverishly scribbling in a notepad, checking her notes against formulas on a whiteboard. Her lips moved silently, repeating the calculations. She was the creator of what was now flowing through the veins of the woman in the chair. The fourth sat...