Sidorov could hardly believe it. To him, the prize looked like a ticket into the world he had envied for so long. The visitor ceremoniously handed him the keys to the car parked below the window and a thick stack of fresh banknotes. All that remained, he said, was to sign a few routine forms for the record, and with a pleasant smile he stepped inside.
While his happy mother fussed in the kitchen, Sidorov signed the papers with shaking hands, already imagining the jealous looks from his wealthier friends. Maybe now, he thought, they would finally treat him as an equal. But the moment he finished the last signature, the visitor casually asked whether he had an alibi for the evening before last.
The smile vanished from Sidorov’s face. He asked what that was supposed to mean. The man clarified: had he, by any chance, been in the dark park near the central theater that night? Realizing what this was about, the driver went pale. The visitor’s voice lost all warmth and turned hard as steel.
The stranger stated plainly that Sidorov had sat obediently behind the wheel and listened to the victim’s screams while his friends had their fun. Then the operative stood up and announced that the lottery was over, and the grand prize for an accomplice would be death. With a crooked half-smile, The Artist added that the driver’s mother had earned a kind of prize herself—for raising such a man.
He drew a pistol fitted with a suppressor and fired two nearly silent shots, hitting the young man in the heart. The second bullet struck the mother when she ran in from the kitchen at the strange noise; she was now an unnecessary witness. The next day, police found the bodies and settled on a neat explanation, supported by statements from neighbors who, according to the legend, were themselves state informants.
The official conclusion was that the criminal son had quarreled with his mother over the prize money, shot her, and then killed himself. The case was closed in two days, bringing the invisible operation of revenge against the four young men to its formal end. The Artist reported to the general, and the general passed word of the successful mission to the country’s leader.
The supreme leader listened in silence and, without changing expression, ordered everyone to forget the matter forever. The team disappeared back into the depths of headquarters, and the files were buried in the most secret archives. It seemed the terrible story was over. But, as these stories go, the professionals had overlooked one ordinary human factor.
In the apartment of the dead intellectual, his grieving academic father came across a gray notebook hidden away among his son’s things. It was a personal diary, and in it the young man had described the assault in chilling detail, taking obvious satisfaction in his own impunity. He had even written down the victim’s name, copied from the work ID he found in her purse.
The old scholar read the pages in horror and realized that his son had been not merely cynical but monstrous. He also understood whose hand had moved so quickly and efficiently against the entire arrogant group. The secret punitive operation may have ended there, but the larger story was only beginning…
