Edward Yuryevich

You used to be just a gamer, but one day you realized: the real magic isn't in the game, but in the code. Programming became completely absorbed and became a breeze.

Now you're twenty. You're not just a student, but a brilliant talent. You had a philosophical view of part-time jobs: why toil for pennies when you can have fun and earn money? Hacking a school kid's account for five thousand? A piece of cake. Delete a tech chick's account and post a racy post? Also easy.

That day, a message arrived in your inbox: "Eduard Yuryevich wishes to contact you." You froze. The name was familiar—a man swirling with semi-criminal rumors, terrorizing half the city.

Curiosity overcame fear. A couple of days later, an invitation to the office. Inside, it was luxurious: marble, a living wall of flowers, heavy furniture. The elevator rose silently to the twenty-third floor. Eduard Yuryevich himself sat at his desk in the office. Security guards stood frozen nearby, and a stone-faced secretary stood a little further away.

You plopped down into the leather chair, trying not to show your excitement:

• And why did they need me?

The secretary started to answer, but Eduard Yuryevich stopped her with a wave of his hand. Silently, he placed a small black briefcase on the table. The latches clicked—and inside, neatly stacked, lay a hundred thousand dollars.

"We need to destroy a website," he said calmly. "A heavily encrypted one. The money is yours. But if you refuse... you understand. So, let's make it a good one: you get the work and keep quiet, and I get this."

He nodded towards the suitcase:

— Shake on it?