As Anton entered the code and unlocked the heavy, blast-proof metal door to Lab 6, the sight before him made even this seasoned veteran agent gasp in shock.
The lab was in utter chaos, with electric sparks flashing wildly. Filaret stood before a massive machine, raging with exhaustion and madness. One moment he frantically manipulated the control panel, throwing the parameters into disarray; the next, he reached out and blindly yanked at the cables, leaving them in tatters.
“I’ve endured all these years, and finally, the dawning light is finally here! No one will stop me from going to America! Die!”
Meanwhile, Ilya was trapped inside a glass dish, submerged in nutrient solution. His face had turned blue from lack of oxygen, yet he still kept his blue eyes wide open, pounding at the reinforced glass with arms as withered as sticks.
Ilya was alive after all!
But why did he look so young? How long had he been imprisoned in that culture dish? What kind of inhuman torture was this?
Anton’s heart skipped a beat. He sprinted forward, shouting in anguish, “Ilya! Your teacher is here—you have to hold on!”
However, the first to react to the shout was not the man behind the glass, but Filaret.
“Ah… Teacher, you’re here?”
He slowly turned his head, his expression dazed, his eyes bloodshot. His lips moved, but the words that came out struck Anton like a thunderbolt.
“I didn’t want you to see this… Never mind. What you said earlier still stands, right? If you truly value me more, don’t stop me from killing that guy inside. Just take me alone to America… He doesn’t care anyway, but I’ve been waiting for this for so many, many years…”
Filaret’s words sounded strange, but Anton had no time to dwell on them. Seeing that Ilya inside the tank was about to suffocate, he acted without hesitation, pulling the trigger of his pistol and firing a rapid burst.
“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”
The bullets flew out, striking the culture dish with precision. In an instant, countless spiderweb-like cracks spread across the glass, radiating outward. As Anton fired another shot, Ilya inside was thrown against the inner wall once more. The reinforced glass finally gave way, shattering with a loud crash. The viscous nutrient solution, mixed with countless sharp shards of glass, poured out like a waterfall.
Ilya was swept out by the torrent, looking disheveled as he coughed violently and gasped for breath.
Filaret’s plan had failed at the last moment. His hands trembled violently, and his eyes darted nervously from side to side, glancing at Anton and then at Ilya lying on the ground. Finally, like a cornered beast, he let out a desperate howl.
“No—oh God—”
Ilya collapsed to the ground and raised his head, still reeling from the shock. The moment he saw Filaret, a raging fire ignited in his eyes. Without warning, Ilya let out a piercing scream of his own. His frail, emaciated body suddenly erupted with savage strength as he lunged at Filaret.
The two fought a desperate battle amidst the chaos. They cursed, bit, and wrestled at each other, their nails and teeth sinking deep into one another’s flesh, like two vengeful demons entangled in a deadly struggle in the depths of hell, refusing to yield until one was dead.
Just like that chaos in 1979.
That year, in the director’s office, Filaret had taken the only vial of antidote himself, refusing to share it with Ilya. Enraged, Ilya had grabbed him by the throat, accusing him of hypocrisy. Filaret had been instantly enraged, erupting into a hysterical roar as he used every ounce of strength to twist Ilya’s arms behind his back.
“You’re the one who eats human flesh and drinks human blood—you bourgeois scum!”
The screams made the office windows rattle.
“All Soviets are equal! But a parasite like you, clinging to the system, has no right to speak of fairness! Here, at this very moment, I am more equal than you! Die, Ilya Molotov!”
“I won’t die… I won’t die! And I certainly won’t die at the hands of a beast like you!”
Driven by desperation, Ilya summoned his last reserves of strength, roaring as he struggled frantically to break free and fight back. In the chaos, he grabbed a heavy object from the floor and smashed it viciously against Filaret’s skull.
Filaret let out a muffled groan, his body went limp, and he passed out.
At that moment, the toxin struck his heart, and Ilya’s vision began to blur. It felt as though an invisible giant hand were clenching his heart, causing stars to dance before his eyes, making it hard to breathe, and drenching his back in cold sweat. He knew his end was near.
He looked at the unconscious Filaret. Just as he was at a loss, an utterly疯狂 idea suddenly sprang to mind.
“That’s it… There’s still a way out, there’s still hope… converting brainwaves into signals…”
As long as he could preserve his consciousness, the death of his physical body would not be the end!
Ignoring the skeptical questions of the research institute staff along the way, Ilya ordered the power supply to Lab 6 to be turned up to maximum. He mustered his last ounce of strength to drag Filaret all the way into the lab and locked the door from the inside.
He no longer had the strength to lift Filaret into the experimental chamber, so he could only drag himself toward the switch while clutching the power cord, barely managing to force the machine into operation.
“Rumble… sizzle… sizzle…” The massive, high-powered machine began to run wildly.
“Electroshock parameters set to maximum… very good. This is my last chance for an experiment; next, it’ll be my turn. I must act quickly—I absolutely cannot fail…”
Ilya had completely lost the elegance and arrogance of the young aristocrat he once was. At that moment, he looked just as disheveled as Filaret on the ground. He raised the electroshock device high, his eyes filled with a vicious glint that surpassed even the intensity of his opponent’s attack.
“Filaret, you deserve this. You used to steal my thunder in front of the professor, and now you don’t care if I live or die… You hypocrite…” He gasped for breath, muttering neurotically to himself, and finally burst out laughing. “That’s right, a lowly commoner like you isn’t worth saving anyway… God will forgive my sins…”
Just then, Filaret awoke, struggling in a frenzy of shock and rage to wrest the stun gun from his grasp.
“Let go! Are you crazy?! Let go!”
“You let go! Die! You worthless, vile ant!”
The machine grew hotter by the second, and the orange-red vacuum tubes burned out one after another.
Moments later, a deafening explosion rang out, and the laboratory was bathed in light as bright as day. A deluge of electrical arcs descended upon them, piercing both men’s brains simultaneously!
“Boom—! Sizzle! Sizzle!”
Their brainwaves raced, collided, and twisted amidst the blinding light and surging current, eventually flowing slowly into each other’s bodies as the electrical surge subsided.
When the white smoke cleared, Vera, the Caucasian Shepherd, staggered to her feet from the corner and let out a bewildered, fearful whimper.
The old dog, worried about her two owners, had followed Ilya inside at some point and witnessed the entire scene.
She didn’t understand what had happened; she only knew her masters were lying motionless on the ground, so she rushed over in a panic and licked their faces.
“Filaret” was the first to open his eyes, but the moment he locked eyes with Vera, the old dog’s keen animal instincts sensed something was wrong.
This isn’t Filaret… Though the body is his, something inside is different… different!
Its fur bristled, its back arched, and a threatening growl rumbled in its throat.
Startled, “Filaret” grabbed the stun gun nearby and raised it as if to strike.
“Get away! Get away!”
This action pushed Vela’s hostility to its peak; it lunged forward and sank its teeth deep into “Filaret.”
“Ugh! Get away! Why are you suddenly biting me? Damn beast!”
“Filaret” screamed and kicked Vera away with all his might.
Then, as if realizing something, he touched his throat and looked down at his clothes, his face turning pale. He turned his head in disbelief, staring at the unconscious body lying beside him.
“How… how did I… how did I end up in this guy’s body? Hey, wake up! Wake up! God, how do I switch back? It’s over… No, stay calm, I have to figure something out…”
Everything had gone haywire.
And when Filaret awoke inside Ilya’s skin sack, he would never forget the sheer despair that greeted him in that moment—unable to open his eyes, unable to move his limbs, his entire body like a living mummy, confined in eternal darkness.
All he could do was listen in agony as his enemy, assuming his identity and voice, seized the position of director of the research institute he had painstakingly built, and under the pretext of indefinite treatment, sealed him inside a petri dish, subjecting him to electric shocks time and time again…
The years silently corroded the institute, and they corroded the souls of both men. Tortured beyond recognition—neither human nor ghost—they hated each other with a bone-deep loathing yet remained inextricably entangled, unable to escape one another.
“Die… just die!”
The real Filaret and Ilya, who had taken possession of his original body, were locked in a fierce struggle. In the chaos, he fumbled for a sharp shard of glass and, without a second thought, stabbed it into his opponent’s eye.
The moment it pierced, Ilya let out a bloodcurdling scream as blood gushed from his right eye socket; at the same time, Filaret felt a sudden, intense pain in his own eye for no apparent reason.
With his life on the line, Filaret had no time to think. Ignoring the strange sensation in his eye, he pressed his advantage, pinning his opponent to the ground. He clamped both hands around the other’s neck, his knuckles turning white from the force, the joints creaking.
His face contorted as he let out a pained, hysterical roar: “Haven’t you taken enough already?! Why must you steal everything from me?! What gives you the right?!”
“Do you think I wanted to become you? You’ve ruined my entire life! Ugh…”
The real Ilya’s face turned purplish-red from the chokehold as he frantically clawed at his opponent’s arms.
In the final moment before his life was extinguished, Ilya seemed to suddenly remember something. He forced a malicious, cold smile and squeezed out his last, broken words from the depths of his throat: “I won’t survive… and you… don’t even think about… leaving here alive!”
With a “crack,” the cartilage in his throat snapped. The real Ilya’s hands fell limply to his sides, and the light faded completely from his eyes.
Filaret had won. He had finally succeeded in his revenge.
He slowly released his grip and slumped to the ground, panting, his spirit broken.
Anton had witnessed this harrowing scene, yet he did not fully let down his guard. With ears pricked and eyes scanning every direction, he suddenly asked, “Ilya, listen—what’s that sound?”
But Filaret seemed to hear nothing. Ever since stabbing Ilya in the eye, he’d felt a dull ache in his own eye.
Was it an aftereffect of that electric shock from years ago? Or was it guilt gnawing at him? He didn’t know. He could only cover that eye, while the other stared blankly at the aged, hideous corpse on the ground—a body that had once belonged to him.
He had reclaimed his freedom and his life, yet he had also completely strangled his own flesh and his true identity.
“Ilya, didn’t you hear it? That faint electronic ‘beep’… it seems to be coming from the corpse! Something’s fishy—we need to get out of here!”
Filaret absentmindedly reached for his chest, only to snap back to reality a second later—this wasn’t his original body.
“Oh… that’s the micro-device the government implanted inside us. If the director is kidnapped or defects, he’ll be executed on the spot; if he dies accidentally or his heart stops, the hundreds of kilograms of TNT buried beneath the research institute will…”
Anton’s face turned deathly pale, and he took off running. But after just two steps, seeing Filaret still sitting dazed on the ground with one hand over his eye, he hesitated for a moment before turning back to try and pull him up.
However, due to his long-term physical paralysis and the recent life-and-death struggle, Filaret was already completely exhausted and weak. The slightest movement caused his vision to go dark, and he simply couldn’t stand up. Gritting his teeth, Anton had no choice but to hoist him onto his back and sprint away.
“We’re running out of time. Let’s go!”
The research institute seemed to awaken like a giant beast that had been slumbering for years. Upon receiving the signal, the backup power supply activated automatically, and an ominous red glow instantly illuminated the surroundings. The distorted melody of the Soviet anthem, intermingled with a high-pitched, piercing alarm, echoed endlessly through the hall.
“Freedom unites us in a strong alliance; great national unity endures forever. The will of the people, as strong as steel, writes history; the Soviet Republic is mighty and glorious!”
“Beep, beep-beep—”
Anton knew exactly what was coming: judging by the situation, the moment the anthem ended would be the moment the explosion struck.
There was still a little time left; he had to escape… He hadn’t come back here to die!
When Filaret opened his eyes again, the two of them were already on the beach. Anton was getting on in years; carrying him all the way had left him exhausted. Now, gasping for breath, he cursed under his breath as he dragged Filaret toward a fishing boat moored by the water’s edge.
Behind them, the national anthem played its final notes, growing increasingly urgent alongside the sirens:
“The people’s power is mighty and invincible, guiding us toward communism! Beep, beep-beep—”
The next second, the earth-shattering explosion he’d expected didn’t happen. Instead, more than a dozen dazzling beams of colored light shot up from behind the mountain, lighting up the night sky as bright as day.
“Whoosh—boom! Boom, boom!”
“Whoosh—boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!”
The dazzling fireworks burst overhead with crisp crackling sounds, then scattered and drifted down like a meteor shower.
“Damn it… I never thought this lousy government would even lie to its own people… What was that about hundreds of kilograms of yellow explosives? Just a false alarm…”
Anton let go of Filaret and collapsed onto the beach, gasping for breath in a most undignified manner, his expensive fur coat now covered in sand.
“Phew… I really shouldn’t have switched careers to do this back then! After grinding it out for decades, I’m still risking my life at my age. I’ve survived this close call, and I’ve made enough money. When I get back, I’m definitely submitting my retirement application! Right away! Immediately!”
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he grumbled indignantly. But as he complained, he found himself laughing: “I get it now. Even if we had actually buried explosives back then, they’d probably have been secretly swapped out by someone on the inside and sold off for cash long ago. Hahaha…”
Filaret lay on the beach, staring at the sky filled with smoke and debris, his eyes lifeless, lost in thought.
The fisherman sat in his boat listening to the radio broadcast. He glanced at the sky filled with fireworks and the two disheveled men, lit a cigarette, and said, “Hey, I heard Gorbachev is going to announce his resignation today. The Kremlin will lower the current flag and raise a new one. “I don’t really care—life goes on as usual—but seeing you guys has me a bit confused. You’re playing the national anthem and setting off fireworks. Are you mourning, or celebrating?”
“Celebrating, of course, buddy. With the Soviet Union falling apart, this lousy national anthem will only be played today. We’re just marking the occasion.”
With that, Anton and the fisherman burst into laughter.
Hearing this exchange, Filaret’s whole body jolted. Instinctively, he wanted to rise and angrily rebuke Anton and the fisherman, accusing them of slandering the state and spreading rumors—the Soviet Union he believed in could never be so easily shattered.
But just as he opened his mouth, his voice caught in his throat.
He suddenly realized with a sense of sorrow that the times had indeed changed, and so had his identity. He had strangled his own original body with his own hands and survived by donning the skin of his enemy. Now he was “Ilya,” a young scientist who revered Western freedom…
There was no going back, and he had a premonition that the faint, stinging pain in his eyes would likely haunt him for the rest of his life, clinging to him like a demon’s whisper, constantly reminding him of who he once was.
In the face of the torrent of history, the individual was truly insignificant—all the past struggles for fame and fortune, the grudges and passions, now seemed as light as a feather, utterly meaningless.
Once Anton had relaxed, he sorted through all the clues he’d gathered since arriving on the island.
He glanced at the dazed “Ilya” and felt even more certain that this man’s words and actions didn’t resemble the Ilya he knew; instead, he seemed more like Filaret. So, he deliberately probed, “You’ve slain your archenemy, shaken off the old regime, and are about to board the train to the free West. Are you happy?”
Filaret murmured, “Teacher… you too once swore an oath to join the Party, standing shoulder to shoulder with me… and him, witnessing that glorious era. I refuse to believe there isn’t a single flicker of emotion in your heart.”
Hearing Filaret’s bitter reply, Anton was completely certain. Although the idea of a “soul swap” was too far-fetched, he wisely decided not to press the matter further.
He wasn’t a scientist now; he was an agent. What good would uncovering the truth do? As long as he confirmed the research institute had been completely shut down, eliminated any remaining hostile forces, and brought back a young Russian scientist to defect to the United States, his mission would be considered a complete success.
After all, the Soviet Union was about to cease to exist. Filaret had no choice but to cling desperately to the identity of “Ilya” to survive; otherwise, he would have nothing.
It was just a pity about that boy, Ilya… Though he lacked composure, when it came to natural talent, Filaret simply couldn’t hold a candle to him.
After weighing the pros and cons in his mind, Anton ultimately chose to feign ignorance. Maintaining his gentlemanly composure, yet with a touch of mischief, he replied:
“Oh… well then, Merry Christmas, Ilya.” (Note: The Soviet Union dissolved on December 25, 1991)
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