Consent

I. THE SEARCH

“Do we really have to?” Number 2 asked.

“This morning, I said yes. At lunch I said yes.”

“No.”

The rejection landed between their boots—they almost stopped. Neither wanted to be the first to break pace.

“‘No’ what? What do you want me to say?” Number 1 pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth.

“You said ‘some things are inevitable’.”

“We’ve got six minutes. Spare me the semantics, would you?” Number 1 flexed his jaw. “Now, keep running.”

They ran. They were losing sunlight. Neither was built for woods, especially not in the dark. One wrote code. The other invested. They were not marines. Their bots did the running online, for them.

*

Once inside the building, the air changed. Tight at first, then stuffed. The fluorescent lights went on and off. A convex camera dome pretended to watch them from the ceiling. The fake LED didn’t blink once.

They counted rooms. Even numbers on the right, odd on the left.

Number 1 held the map steady, like a user manual he used more than his memory.

They found the door: 181. He read it like a string.

Sea-view, per the blueprints. They stopped at a plain wooden entry. Titanium lock with a central cylinder. Two vertical rods sliding into the frame when turned.

“It should be empty,” Number 1 said.

Number 2 grinned in recognition. But there was no relief on his face. Four black-gloved hands pressed the bar. A high-pitched sensor whine pierced the corridor. The sound cut off. Then the click.

Both men exhaled at once.

*

The room smelled faintly wrong. Damp drywall, and old metal. Something scrubbed—hard to tell when. The porcelain still shone through the bathroom door. They saw it. Sanded glass framed the mirror. Cheap ornamented edges. It looked like the inside of a casket. The white tiles were polished so hard, that the grout looked almost new.

“I hate white tiles in a hotel,” Number 2 stood near the bed. “Don’t you?” He asked. His eyes caught on the tub and refused to move. His partner adjusted the strap on the backpack without turning.

“Different room. Different gig, amigo.”

“Same room,” Number 2 said quietly.

Number 1 crouched and lifted the corner of the carpet exactly where it had been lifted before. The oversized shoebox was there, under the bed. It was ugly. It seemed like a person would never touch it with bare hands.

Number 2 helped pull it out and lift it.

Inside: a smaller box. Tight seams and reinforced fibre pattern beneath the black coating.

“Small key, please.” Number 1 held out his palm.

“This is it,” Number 2 said, placing the small chain in his hands. “No turning back.”

“I’d propose to you,” Number 1 added, kneeling, “but you’re never home.”

“Shut up.”

Number 1 applied two half turns left, and one full right. Snap.

The latch jammed.

Number 2 swallowed, but nothing went down. The ceiling felt lower.

A hinge creaked from the balcony. The draught moved through the entire room. They turned.

“You should’ve fixed the windows when you bought this joint,” Number 1 said.

“I never put it to work,” Number 2 said. “Why waste money?”

“But you didn't mind spending a fortune on the door.”

“The lock, you mean.”

“And you swore to never come back here.”

“I swore to a lot of shit. What do we do now?”

Number 1 hit the box with his boot. Once. Twice. The internal latch pin let go. The false bottom slid open.

Both men held their breath over the plastic folders.

Passports. Birth certificates. Insurance contracts. Platform compliance forms. Risk waivers. A coupon for gold coins, expired. Points that became members, members that became players, players that became bodies.

They spread everything across the floorboards.

“We’re missing it,” Number 2 said.

Number 1 checked again. Drawers first, then went to the bathroom. Checked the toilet tank, loud enough to wake the ghosts. Under sink panel. Nothing.

Number 2 skimmed titles on the floor, tracking embossed seals, pressure stamps, micro-etched compliance marks.

“The original,” he muttered. “Hard copy and signature. Nothing.”

“Goddamn consent form.” Number 1 watched the ceiling as if what they were looking for might fall from it. Number 2 stood still. But he wasn't calm.

Number 1 kicked the large decoy box, and went back in the bathroom. He didn't care about the mirror, or the tiles.

But the room itself.

The tub.

Number 2 didn’t move. He made an effort to join him inside, but his feet didn't obey. His partner stepped back at full pace in front of him, looking back.

They saw it.

The water.

Dark. Disturbed.

A body lay beneath it. No movement or breath. Bleached hair fanned out to look feminine. But the hand was wrong. The shoulder line too broad. The knuckles too heavy. A gold ring with a black stone. Hairy fingers. Skin already beginning to simmer in chemicals.

The tub was immaculate. No rim, no trace. Someone had made sure there would be nothing left to examine. The only thing that mattered this time was the paper.

Without that consent, they were as good as drowned.

With it—worse.

II. INTERROGATION LOG

WITNESS: UNIT_181 / REACTIVATED

CASE FILE: BODY IN THE HOTEL TUB (COORDINATES UNCONFIRMED)

LOCATION: SKOPJE, EASTERN EUROPE (AS PER WITNESS)

OFFICER: D. POPOV, INTERPOL

“I am not allowed to interfere,” the unit said.

Popov leaned back, e-cigarette between fingers.

“Interfere how?”

“In real-life outcomes.”

“You’re a witness.”

“I am Commander. Unit_181. Role: moderation, compliance oversight, auction control.”

“You remember the match?”

“My memory has been manually altered.”

“By whom?”

“That entry has been erased.”

Popov watched the unit. No blinking delay. The reactivation report promised partial data.

“Who approves the consent forms?”

“The platform operates under hybrid compliance. Private insurance regulation. Cross-border arbitration frameworks. Personal liability waivers.”

“State-sanctioned?”

“State-tolerated.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning privacy law protects participation. Insurance covers injury. Risk classification defines liability. As long as forms are signed, stamped, and archived, the platform is clean.”

“And if it gets dirty?”

“The manager authorizes escalation.”

“Belo.”

“Correct. Gordan Belo.”

“And he protects himself. But his identity was known to gamers.”

“Clients. Yes.”

“It’s a small territory,” Popov said. “Everyone knows everyone.”

“Yes. Even globally. The ‘Six’ Rule.”

“You mean ‘six handshakes rule’?”

“Affirmative.”

“And what happens when a body appears?”

“You put ‘cleaners’ in charge. The creators.”

“I need their names.” Popov stared at it longer than he meant to.

“Creators don’t have names.”

“You’re superior intelligence, right?”

“Affirmative. We know everything.”

“Then start talking.”

“We can’t,” the unit said. “No play/pause button. Function disabled.”

The unit’s face—human enough to be unsettling—didn’t change.

*

“Give your statement, Commander.”

“The Commander serves as a fifth player. My assigned duty is surveillance of the game room. In order not to disturb the natural flow, I am given a human figure. I am not allowed to interfere. Interference is prohibited. I control the auction.”

“What was the bid for?” Popov asked, his e-cigarette between teeth.

“A girl. Tall. Long arms. Long legs. Long hair. No armour.”

“Where?”

“In the Game-room: a bathroom. White tiles touched her head leaning on the tub. She performed ‘cleansing’ before battle.”

“Name?”

“Karolina. Initial K. She was designated ‘victim’.”

“Which meant…?”

“Target role under signed consent. Teams bid blind. When one raised, their logo flashed red. Our faces filled four squares on her screen. Mine included. I was the fifth player.”

“And others?”

“MickeyRat, HendriXxx, Phillip II.”

“And the girl, and the manager. Right?”

“Negative. That would be six. The manager was offline. But he monitored escalation flags and put the rules on the board:

No pause.

No reset.

No redo.

Just live.

Option A: Team wins. Discretionary control.

Option B: Manager wins. Retains stake. Pays out the participation fee of the victim.

Option C: Victim wins. Full leverage.”

“She agreed?” Popov turned the e-cigarette in his fingers as if it were a pen.

“Affirmative. She signed. Identity license was attached at the board. Liability—annexed. Risk category acknowledged. Hand signature. Ink stamp. Scanned and filed.”

“So, the players are ‘clean’?

“The form is. A clean document is rare. This one allowed a dirty play.”

“Go to the game.”

“The platform loaded Duel.” The Commander stopped for a second, as if he was retrieving information. “Fencing. Sharpened blades. She dried her hair before stepping into the sim.”

“Sim?”

“Simulator. She chose HendriXxx. Only player without medical exemption. She stabbed him once. Chest. Non-fatal threshold. He only grazed her. Twice. On the thighs. She won. Penalty points calculated automatically for attacking where he shouldn’t have.”

“What did she ask for?” Popov said.

“A private meeting, IRL.” Unit replied.

“Normal?”

“Statistically correlated with fatalities. Belo smelled a set-up. He called live in the game. Told HendriXxx not to go. He went, anyway. Arousal trumped paper.”

“Where? Location?”

“Under the bronze horse statue. Skopje.”

“We have different information, Commander. We have Split.”

“Split doesn’t have a horse statue.”

“We have evidence, camera footage from the docks.”

“All IP addresses of the players logged in from Skopje.”

“Check the victim’s location data.”

A pause.

“Kaštel district. Nineteen point four kilometres from Split.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“’Messenger of Freedom Monument’.”

Popov leaned back. “There’s your horse, Commander.”

*

Inspector Popov paused. He turned the e-cigarette backwards. This was the hinge he’d been waiting for.

“This is where Belo disappeared?” Popov asked.

“I wasn’t there.”

“But you saw everything. You remained. You moderated their chats.”

“I repeat. I am not allowed to interfere after. Nor before. Nor during.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.”

Popov stared at him. “But you’re not telling the truth either.”

The illusion of power is everything in games. It’s the drug. The edge of the blade. The precipice where you fall from the saddle.

“They were not bidding for her body. She was bidding for his.”

Unit’s eyes flicker once, neon-red at the edge, then settle back into total blankness.

*

“Suspect: colleague. Undercover agent. Detention failed. Missing. Possibly wrongly assumed as dead. Analysis conducted—results missing from archives. No evidence placing her at the scene. Attacked in a simulator, twice. Masked players.”

Popov taps the folder. “The victim identified after anonymous tip. Device GPS bounces. Signal pings in Split.”

He turns the e-cigarette on.

“Victim name: Gordan Belo—confirmed only by online alias. Skopje was a decoy. The perpetrators’ place of origin only. And the bot bought it.”

III. ERASURE

Back in 181, Number 1 locked himself in the bathroom. Answered a call.

Number 2 barely heard: “Hey. No—we didn’t find it yet. We will, H.” When Number 1 came back, he sat on the bed, took a sip of whiskey from his flask, passed it to Number 2. He worried the keyrings like church beads. Although he never believed in God, only numbers.

“I mean, hotel numbers are weird,” he finally said. “Always three digits, even if the hotel has barely ten rooms.”

“You know why?” Number 1 asked, hiding pity under amusement.

“First number is the floor. Last two are the room.”

“Damn,” Number 1 said. “You’re good.”

“I was indulging you,” Number 2 said. “I’m not Einstein. I own this joint.”

“Ok, not Einstein,” Number 1 said. “Pack your shit. Let’s get out of here.”

Number 2 didn’t move.

“What if Belo didn’t keep her consent form at all?”

Number 1 tightened his mouth and whistled. “I don’t know. H. thinks the opposite. It’s the only evidence that takes this to trial. All of us. Without it, nothing happened. Nobody died. Nobody lived. Game over.”

“Is it possible he destroyed it?”

“Hardly,” Number 1 said. “It’s evidence.”

“That can take him to trial too.”

“Shush,” Number 1 said. “There is no trial.”

“There is no Belo,” Number 2 corrected.

Number 1 didn’t deny it.

“I can see him, you know? Gordan. In the tub. Over and over again.” Number 2 whispered. “His left eye barely open, watching us. The water not even fully red—blood already clotted. Steam smearing his reflection across whiter marble.”

“Almost poetic,” Number 1 scratched the back of his head.

“Everything you develop is poetic,” Number 2 said. “Remember the first games you sold me, on my smartphone? I won a golden watch.”

“That was the bait,” Number 1 laughed for the first time. “And you took it like a mouse. Hey—Mickey is your cousin, after all.”

“And Belo was his. The stupid rule of six.” Number 2 was serious. “We didn’t know how to hide a dead body.”

“So, we didn’t.” Number 1 confirmed. “We cleaned.”

“That bitch K. set us up,” Number 2 finished the flask.

“Don’t call her that,” Number 1 said. “She’s a client.”

“You just called her on the phone. You traitor.”

“No, I called her husband.”

“Shit, you made them disappear too.”

“They asked, amigo.”

*

Number 2 lifted one of the passports, then another. He found the Croatian ferry ticket for two folded into a receipt sleeve—thin, heat-creased, the ink half-faded from salt.

Two names. HendriXxx and Karolina.

Proof of place.

Not proof of crime.

Number 2 watched him read it and felt the room tilt. Felt it in his teeth.

“So, are we sure that the robot spoke?” Number 2 asked.

“I shut it down,” Number 1 replied.

“I meant about the consent form?”

“I am positive it’s gone forever. Or it’s still lingering somewhere in this room.”

Number 2 looked at the tub again.

The same rod. The same tiles.

“I bought this place for a reason,” He said quietly. “And I did my best to make it disappear legally…”

Number 1 didn’t ask, he knew it all. Number 2 staged a robbery first. He took insurance. Sold the reception desk in chats and forums, he offered the chairs to his cousins, for free.

Then he flooded the basement and ground floor. In the second year. The bedding was floating in the sea, like whales. He took second insurance. Now Number 2 will do what his bots should have suggested years ago. Burn it to the ground, with the shoebox masked in kevlar splinters, and the stained carpet, and the stupid ferry ticket.

Because if Popov—or anyone smarter—ever got the paper consent form, it would compromise everyone. Number 1 can disapprove the digital. But it will be enough to drag their names in all papers, local and global. They will make reels about them, memes.

It would turn them into murderers.

It would turn Number 1 into architect.

It would turn Number 2 into accomplice.

You can’t hide like in a simulator.

All the other names are irrelevant. Never existed for real.

“We were never here.” Number 1 pulled a wetsuit tight.

"Not the first time, not now. Never."

The Adriatic waited.

They burned the papers first. Used them to light the curtains.

*

They removed the gloves only once they were in the water.

They swam, supported by the currents. Flames rose behind them when they rested on their backs—orange reflected off black wetsuits. Number 1 breathed quieter. He had bigger lungs. And he was in better shape.

Number 2 tasted blood. His gums split from cold. He wondered if his backpack was waterproof. Maybe he should’ve spent the extra coins on a harpoon. The small, silent torpedo boosters he ordered online discharged quickly. He didn’t calculate a night swim. He bought them for fun, for the beach.

Halfway out, Number 2 drifted too far. Number 1 caught his wrist. The hotel burned to the ground behind them. Whatever was written was gone. Whatever was remembered wasn’t. When they reached Italian waters, a fishing boat waited.

*

At 4:58 AM they hit shore, then rested on the sand as drunk tourists until the sun woke them up. At 8:00 AM they ordered coffee at the beach pub. Waiters don’t ask questions. By 10:00 they bought a car. They drove to the nearest resort, checked in. They spent the day at the pool. Together. They sipped prosecco and decided to split up next day. Number 1 and Number 2 agreed never to meet again while splashing their toes next to the blue tiles.

They prefer blue.

EPILOGUE — EXCERPTS FROM THE REPORT

TRUE TO THE ORIGINAL

SEPTEMBER 8, XXXX, SPLIT

SIGNATORY: POPOV RM, SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR, INTERPOL

Police Note: A decomposed dead body found in Split. Witness claims Skopje. Two stab wounds. Upper torso (unverifiable).

Victim Name: Gordan Belo (unconfirmed).

Suspect Name: Karolina K.—Initial used on platform (identity confirmed).

The suspect wasn’t detained, questioned or released. Subject disappeared from jurisdiction.

Key witness: Game-bot. Claims to be a player.

Witness note: None of his so-called team-mates exist. Not in any database. No digital fingerprints. No verification possible. Their timelines blocked. Digital ghosts.

Investigator note: The unit Commander is useless. Memory damaged. POV distorted. Reparation unsuccessful.

Outdated physical interrogation methods used after detention.

Budget Note: No valid reason to keep its engine running. It’s useless.

Conclusion Note: After 181 interrogations: identical answers, identical pauses, identical locations. The unit’s eyes flickered in neon red. It appeared to retrieve partial logs.

Then it shut off.

Physical evidence retrieved: None.

Case closed.