The streets of Tarkov hum with a familiar, weary rhythm—loot, scavenge, survive, repeat. It’s a cycle as predictable as the bloodstains drying on cracked concrete, yet within this brutal cadence, Prapor’s whispers offered a different kind of dance: the 'Delivery From The Past.' At level five, his proposition felt like catching a falling star in a rusted tin can—precarious, yet shimmering with promise. A simple folder, he said. Retrieve and hide. But in Tarkov, simplicity is a ghost, flickering just beyond the muzzle flash.

🗝️ The Key Hunt: Fishing in Shadows

Before stepping into the storm, I needed the Tarcone Director's Office Key. Hunting for it was like fishing for silver minnows in the dark waters of Tarkov’s discarded pockets—scav jackets hung limp as empty promises, drawers yawned open like forgotten graves, and fallen Scavs clutched secrets in their cold fists. When my fingers finally closed around its cold metal teeth, I felt the weight of the journey begin.

🏭 Customs: A Dirge in Red Sheet Metal

Eastward I crept, toward a skeletal red warehouse bleeding rust under the ashen sky. Inside, stairs groaned under my boots, leading to a gray office corridor—a tomb of paperwork and decay. At its end, across from a silent water cooler and beside slumped garbage bags (Tarkov’s mournful bouquets), the door awaited. The office within was a still life of collapse. And there, under the wooden office table like a child’s hidden treasure, lay the folder atop a small drawer. Its plainness mocked the danger. Extracting with it pressed against my chest felt like carrying a live grenade wrapped in silk.

⚙️ Factory: The Steel Whale's Ribcage

Then came Factory. If Tarkov’s other maps are broken lungs gasping for air, Factory is a steel whale’s ribcage—claustrophobic, echoing with gunfire and desperation. My destination: Gate 3. Near its extraction point, a sheet-metal room clung to a metal staircase like a wasp’s nest. Inside, the real test began. Holding the folder for ten eternal seconds was an act of faith. I had to ensure I was hidden, a shadow in the machinery, while planting it. The vulnerability was excruciating—a butterfly pinned mid-flight. Success didn’t demand immediate escape; merely surviving any subsequent Factory raid after planting would seal the pact.

💰 Rewards: Prapor's Bitter Sweetness

Emerging alive, Prapor’s gratitude materialized—not in warmth, but in cold, hard utility. The rewards were a symphony of survival:

• 4,000 EXP (Wisdom etched in bullet casings)

• 20,000 - 23,000 Roubles (Blood money, scaled by my rapport)

• +.03 Prapor Reputation (A fractional step from stranger to asset)

• 40x 12/70 7mm Buckshot (Pocket thunder)

• 4x SOK-12 Magazines (Drums for the coming storm)

• 1 Saiga 12ga ver.10 Shotgun 🏆 (My new tongue for speaking violence)

• Access to 5.45x39mm PS ammo at LL1 (Prapor’s true handshake)

The Saiga, sleek and lethal, felt like shaking hands with a ghost made iron. Yet the true reward? Understanding Tarkov’s cruel poetry: sometimes, to escape the cycle, you must first become part of its verse—delivering the past to buy another tomorrow.