Filaret stood on the beach, scanning the horizon intently.
Having just disposed of “Worker-01,” he had rushed to the shore in such a hurry that he hadn’t had time to tidy himself up; he simply cupped a handful of icy seawater and roughly wiped the grime from his face. However, the lingering seawater, stung by the damp, chilly sea breeze, made him shiver uncontrollably. He could only clench his hands tightly into the pockets of his gray tweed coat, his fingernails digging almost into the flesh of his palms.
“I’ve had enough of this damn weather… Why aren’t they here yet?”
Just as he was muttering his frustration under his breath, an old motorboat laden with fishing nets cut through the night, gliding silently toward the nearly abandoned pier of the Black Sea Research Institute. The roar of the engine was deliberately muffled as it neared the shore, eventually fading into a few muffled, dry coughs.
Filaret’s furrowed brow finally relaxed. He flicked on his flashlight and strode forward.
A pair of polished, respectable leather shoes touched the damp, soft sand, emitting a faint, muffled thud.
The man was nearing seventy, clad in an expensive black fur coat; strangely enough, he wore a cheap, street-stall straw hat on his head, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and beneath the coat was a garishly colorful Hawaiian shirt, covered in palm leaves and surfboard patterns, with the top two buttons of the collar casually undone.
This absurd mix-and-match ensemble exuded a strikingly intense sense of the absurdity and flamboyance characteristic of the wealthy in the free world.
Though this outfit clashed with the bleak atmosphere of a Black Sea winter night, and the years had etched deep lines of hardship across the man’s forehead and the corners of his eyes, Filaret would never mistake those chiseled features once the sunglasses were removed, nor that gaze as sharp as a hawk’s.
This man was none other than Anton Korolev, the undisputed authority at the National Academy of Sciences in his day.
Anton’s gaze flashed like lightning as it swept over Filaret, sizing him up from head to toe. His brow furrowed imperceptibly before relaxing, and he extended his right hand with a touch of swagger. As his palm moved, the diamond-encrusted ring on his finger sparkled in the dim light.
“Pleased to meet you, pleased to meet you. I am Angus Keller, a sales representative for the American Cross Medical Group. It is an honor to be connecting with your organization through the economic exchange delegation…”
While spouting a set of diplomatic platitudes with great solemnity, he shrewdly scanned his surroundings, his gaze finally settling on the massive mountain range behind the beach, blending seamlessly into the night.
“I’m truly humbled that Comrade Director would come down to the shore to greet me personally.”
Filaret waved his hand self-deprecatingly. “Don’t worry about it. This godforsaken place isn’t fit for human habitation—even the KGB would find it too remote to use as a training base. There are no outsiders on the island, so let’s skip the code words. Oh, dear Professor, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you!”
Anton burst out laughing, spread his arms wide, and stepped forward, embracing the student before him—who reeked of coal dust and mold—with the fervor of a long-awaited reunion.
"After soaking up the Miami sun for over ten years, I’m actually a bit unaccustomed to the winter wind here, but seeing you again really gets this old man’s blood pumping.” Anton said, then casually asked: “Where’s that kid Ilya? He’s usually the first to join the fun—why isn’t he here?”
The name struck like a poisoned dagger, instantly piercing Filaret’s taut nerves.
The muscles in his cheeks twitched violently, his lips trembling as he instinctively squeezed a single word through clenched teeth: “He…”
But before the syllable could fully form, it was as if an invisible hand had intercepted it, choking it off completely.
He frantically averted his gaze and mumbled evasively, “Oh… it’s windy out here; this isn’t the place to talk. We… we’ll discuss this in more detail at the station. Please follow me.”
Anton’s piercing gaze lingered on Filaret’s face for half a second. He didn’t press the matter further, but merely gave a faint, noncommittal smile.
Filaret turned to lead the way, but when he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of the fisherman who had set sail sorting through the catch in the hold, he stopped in his tracks. He pointed toward the hold and barked at the fisherman in a harsh tone, “Hey, I’ll take the biggest bass in there—I need it to entertain my guests.”
The fisherman, wrapped in a tattered sheepskin coat, kept his head down, busily sorting through the dead fish. He didn’t even bother to look up, merely glancing at Filaret out of the corner of his eye. His face—dark, red, and cracked from the sea wind—was etched with the cunning and indifference characteristic of the lower classes: “You want it? Sixty rubles.”
Filaret’s face turned ashen. “Sixty rubles? Do you think I don’t know the market? A sea bass could never be that expensive!”
The fisherman snorted derisively and spat toward the sea. “Comrade Director, the ruble’s depreciating faster than a stone sinking to the bottom of the ocean. That’s the going rate at my stall in the Moscow fish market. If you don’t have cash on hand or something valuable to barter with, don’t bother coming here.”
Ever since the research institute’s supply lines had been cut off, Filaret had been forced to swallow his pride and deal with these uncouth fishermen, scraping by by secretly selling off institute property. He instinctively reached into his pocket—it was empty.
“I… I didn’t bring any cash with me. Just put it on my tab. When the supply ship arrives in a few days…”
“Forget it, you prideful pauper!” the fisherman interrupted with a cold laugh. “The island’s in total darkness day and night, the dock’s falling apart and no one’s fixing it—what’s the difference between this rundown research institute and a bankrupt one? What ‘in a few days’? Hey, that watch peeking out from under your sleeve’s pretty flashy. Use that as payment, and the fish are yours.”
The fisherman rudely pointed at the wristwatch that had inadvertently slipped into view on Filaret’s wrist. It was an exquisitely crafted limited-edition Swiss gold watch, its face encrusted with diamonds.
Filaret was instantly livid. Years of pent-up humiliation and rage erupted like a volcano. He brandished his fist and roared: “You blind, uncivilized brute! Do you have any idea who I am? Do you know how precious this watch is? Your stinking fish isn’t even worth a single gear in it!”
The fisherman rolled his eyes in contempt and retorted, “The Hammer and Sickle in Moscow is about to come down, and you’re still trying to pull your official rank on me? Does that put food on the table? “No cash, no deal. Go starve by your own damn grave!”
“You—” Filaret trembled with rage, raising his fist to charge forward, but a broad, calloused hand pressed heavily down on his shoulder.
Professor Anton had stepped forward without anyone noticing. His gaze swept past the two men arguing and fixed intently on the watch on Filaret’s wrist, a flash of sharpness gleaming in his eyes.
As his former mentor, he knew that watch all too well. It was a gift his father—a high-ranking military officer—had brought back from West Germany to celebrate Ilya’s admission to the Moscow State Institute of International Relations at the age of fourteen. Ilya had always been spoiled and never lacked for luxury goods, yet he had a particular fondness for that gold watch, wearing it day and night.
How on earth had this watch ended up on Filaret’s wrist?
Anton spoke slowly: “This watch is indeed precious; it’s not for sale… If this old man’s memory serves me right, this is something Ilya never took off, isn’t it?”
Filaret’s heart skipped a beat, and a chill sweat instantly soaked through the lining of his coat. He frantically averted his gaze, pulling down his sleeve to try to hide his wrist as he stammered a defense: “Ah… Ilya, he… he got tired of wearing it and just gave it to me… Yes, I was surprised when I received it too.”
This clumsy lie was riddled with holes; anyone could hear the evasion and panic in his voice.
Anton let out a meaningful, drawn-out “Oh” and set his doubts aside for the moment. He averted his gaze, reached into the pocket of his fur coat, and elegantly pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, handing it to the fisherman.
The moment he laid eyes on the green bill, the fisherman froze in place, staring intently at the portrait of Franklin on it, his cloudy eyes suddenly blazing with greed. He hastily wiped his hands on his tattered leather jacket, snatched the bill, and his earlier indifference vanished in an instant.
“Oh my! You should’ve said so sooner!” The fisherman bowed and scraped, his back bent like a boiled shrimp. “The fish is yours! If you don’t mind, I’ll light the fire right away and grill it for you until it’s sizzling with oil!”
Anton nodded gracefully, accepting the offer with ease. “I’d appreciate that.”
He turned to look at Filaret, whose face was alternating between pale and crimson, and nonchalantly brushed away imaginary dust from his fur coat. His tone was light, yet every word carried a hidden sting: “My dear comrade, you see, times have changed. This old man woke up a little earlier, but for you, it’s not too late.”
Filaret watched the fishermen’s backs as they busied themselves building a fire, then glanced at the elderly man beside him, whose face looked refreshed and revitalized. His lips trembled, and in the end, he could only force a pale, feeble sentence through clenched teeth: “My dear professor, you are as witty and charming as ever.”
The tunnel leading into the mountain was dark and damp, with icicles on the ceiling occasionally dripping icy water. The air-raid lights, which were supposed to burn all night long, were now barely a tenth of what they once were. The few remaining lamps barely illuminated the mottled concrete walls, stretching the two men’s shadows into strange, distorted shapes.
Professor Anton followed behind Filaret, surveying this former top-secret fortress with astonishment. The Soviet government had once poured countless resources into this place, yet now it lay in a state of shocking desolation. Inside, the place was deserted; large swaths of plaster had fallen away, exposing rebar eroded by the sea breeze and covered in bright red rust, and the musty smell lingered.
“Gorbachev announced on television six months ago that these biochemical facilities would be phased out in accordance with international treaties. It seems he was serious…” Anton remarked flatly.
Filaret’s face paled. “What? Moscow is going to shut this place down?”
“You didn’t know anything about this? It’s only because I saw a foreign news report that I decided to return home and contact you. Otherwise, if I’d been a moment later, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been able to find you.”
“No wonder… no wonder the supply ships haven’t come for months, and I can’t get through to the Defense Committee or the National Academy of Sciences,” Filaret complained bitterly. “What a bunch of ungrateful bureaucrats! I’ve been holding the fort here day and night, and in the end, they just toss me aside like a rag?!”
“The folks at the Kremlin have their own hands full; they don’t have the time to worry about this isolated island. Supplies are scarce back home, the constituent republics are lining up to declare their sovereignty, and with the ‘August Coup’ that just happened, the situation has long since gone to hell. In my opinion, Gorbachev won’t be in power much longer—it’s even questionable how many more days the Red Flag will fly. Once the empire falls apart, what kind of Soviet Union will there be left in this world?”
Anton discussed the global situation in a leisurely tone, trudging forward over the gravel while casually raising his left hand to deftly flick the crown on his watch a few times.
Filaret glanced back, and Anton’s movements stopped abruptly. He asked nonchalantly, “The compass on my watch seems to have gone haywire; the needle is spinning like crazy. Is there some kind of jamming device on the island?”
Having headed the research institute for many years and handled countless pieces of espionage equipment, Filaret was well-versed in the tricks of Western intelligence agencies. He saw right through it: the watch on Anton’s wrist was fitted with a miniature pinhole camera, and his earlier fiddling had been a covert recording of the surroundings along the way.
This old professor claimed he was returning home to visit old acquaintances, but his true purpose was surely not that simple...
However, Filaret had now become a pawn, with no confidence to stand up to his opponent. At this moment, he was like a bird startled by a bowstring; as long as he could protect the secrets of Laboratory No. 6, he didn’t care what intelligence Anton gathered or to whom he sold it.
He cleared his throat, averted his gaze, and feigned ignorance: “Back then, the Ministry of Defense issued the construction order in a great rush. Only after the project was completed did we discover that the magnetic iron ore content in this mountain exceeded standards, making the magnetic field extremely unstable. Compasses and radios malfunctioning is a common occurrence. But we had no choice but to turn a blind eye and make do with it.”
Anton chuckled wryly and patted Filaret on the shoulder. “I have to say, that’s very Soviet.”
The two of them carried the fragrant, oil-slicked grilled fish to the chief’s office. Filaret dug out some porcelain plates and forks, then awkwardly wiped the dirt off them with the back of his sleeve before arranging them neatly. He then turned toward the safe in the corner, pulling out two flasks and a bottle of vodka that was still more than half full. The moment the cork popped, the crisp, rich aroma of the liquor instantly filled the room.
“Thank goodness I still had some left. Grilled sea bass just has to be paired with vodka, but since we’re out of glasses, you’ll have to make do with a flask.”
Anton raised an eyebrow, took the flask, and teased, “Are you sure you want to drink? I remember you never touched a drop back in college—your face would turn as red as a monkey’s butt the moment you had a sip.”
A momentary blankness flashed in Filaret’s eyes, followed by a bitter sigh. He raised his flask to clink lightly with Anton’s and said with a wry smile, “People change. Professor, on this isolated island, to put it nicely, I’m dedicating myself to the nation; to put it bluntly, what’s the difference between me and a condemned prisoner in exile? If I don’t scorch my heart with hard liquor, how can I prove I’m still alive?”
He tilted his head back and took a huge gulp; the fiery liquor burned down his esophagus like scalding lava.
“Ha… that’s strong! Vodka truly lives up to being our second mother: ‘She may be cruel, but she never lies.’”
Anton watched as Filaret’s cheeks flushed rapidly under the alcohol’s influence, a gleam flashing in his eyes. He too raised his flask, clinked it heartily against the other’s, and drained it in one gulp: “It really is fine liquor! As expected, it only tastes right when you’re standing on home soil. ‘Vodka brings us together, friendship unites us!’”
“To vodka! To our health!”
In the dim, dilapidated office, the two flasks clinked repeatedly. The steam from the grilled fish rose in wispy plumes, temporarily blurring the wariness and probing glances in each other’s eyes.
They began to reminisce about old times in Moscow, starting with the national hero, cosmonaut Gagarin, moving on to their days at the University of Science, and then to the grandeur of the military parades on Red Square. As the alcohol warmed their hearts, they felt as though they were back in that golden age of passionate idealism and unwavering faith in the future.
By the time the bottle of vodka was nearly empty, Filaret’s face had turned a purplish red, and a hazy glow of intoxication had settled over Anton’s eyes.
Filaret, his speech slurring, pushed the bottle across the table: “Let’s… let’s finish this one, Professor…”
“I’ve had my fill. You should cut back too; one more drink and you’ll be out cold.” Anton set down his flask, its glass base clinking sharply against the tabletop.
He leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “Filaret, as a former comrade and as the teacher who once instructed you, let’s be frank with each other. There are some heartfelt words I must say.”
“Please… please go ahead.”
“You remember, don’t you, the brief ‘thaw’ during Khrushchev’s tenure? But as soon as Brezhnev took office, the political climate changed instantly.”
“Of course I remember.”
“Even though I had no enemies, I was subjected to anonymous denunciations. The KGB raided my home every other day, searching through my books and papers—they didn’t even spare my grandmother’s belongings, confiscating the *Philokalia* (Note: an Orthodox Christian text) that was inside. Back then, I kept asking myself: Why am I being treated this way when I’ve dedicated myself wholeheartedly to serving the country?”
The old professor stroked his stubble-covered chin and sighed deeply: “Later, I came to understand: socialism is perfect, but the people implementing it are not. I could endure it once, but not for a lifetime; disappointment was inevitable. Just then, the CIA extended an olive branch to me, offering to provide the most advanced medical equipment to treat my tumor—isn’t that far more practical than all the empty promises spouted by those people in Moscow?”
Anton had steeled himself before broaching the subject. Given Filaret’s temperament in the past, remarks like these—which amounted to nothing less than an attempt to turn him against his own side—would have, at the very least, caused an awkward silence between them, if not a furious outburst.
Yet, to his surprise, Filaret showed no sign of displeasure; instead, he chuckled and looked utterly at ease: “Hey… my dear professor, the truth is, I envy you to death. You’re a smart man; you see right through how rotten this system is. To just walk away like that—how incredibly carefree.”
“Oh? Is that really how you feel?” Anton looked taken aback. “I thought you were a Bolshevik who wouldn’t turn back even if you hit a brick wall.”
“Not at all!” Filaret waved his hands frantically, his eyes glazed with drink. “You’re absolutely right, Professor! Let me speak my mind, too—I’ve been bottling this up for years and I’m about to go mad!”
Once he started talking, there was no stopping him. Filaret vented the grievances he’d been holding in for years: “Those bureaucrats all pay lip service to the greatness and selflessness of socialism, but their hearts are full of hypocrisy, selfishness, and greed… I’ve had enough of it! To hell with the Soviets! Spit!”
He ranted and raved, his face contorted by the pent-up rage of years.
Anton leaned forward slightly, staring intently at Filaret, his voice deliberately hushed: “It’s a blessing in disguise that you’ve come to this realization. I don’t think this regime will last more than three or five months; the red flag on Red Square will be coming down soon. You’re the student I value most—you’re down-to-earth. There’s no need for you to stay on this isolated island and go down with this sinking ship.”
“You said… ‘down-to-earth’… ‘value most’?” Filaret murmured, a fleeting, elusive oddity flashing in his eyes.
Anton was momentarily at a loss, but since the other man had already torn the system to shreds, he saw no reason to hold back. He laid his cards on the table.
“Come with me to the United States. As long as you bring all your experimental data with you, you’ll be treated like royalty in the West. With me vouching for you, the CIA will pave the way for you, ensuring your return to the pinnacle of the scientific community and a life free from worry.”
Filaret didn’t hesitate for even a moment. He jerked his head up; his drunken eyes showed not a shred of resistance, but instead burst with an almost sickening ecstasy: “You… you mean it?! Go to America?!”
He leaped to his feet, leaning on the table in such haste that he knocked over the flask he’d been drinking from: “I’ll go! I’ll go! Please, I beg you, put in a good word with the CIA. I don’t want to stay in this hellhole another second!”
A barely perceptible twitch crossed Anton’s eye, and a hint of suspicion crept into his mind.
It was going too smoothly—so smoothly it was almost unnerving.
He had just mentioned the news of the research institute’s closure half-seriously, half-jokingly, but in reality, the Kremlin had announced it over a year ago; it was only because Filaret had been cut off from the outside world on the island that he knew nothing of it.
Logically speaking, seeing his staff scattered and his supplies cut off, Filaret should have left this isolated island long ago—if not to seek a new path, then at least to demand an explanation from the government. Yet he had stubbornly remained, like a ghost, refusing to leave!
If he was so utterly devoted to the system, why, the moment he heard “go to America,” did he defect so eagerly and without any scruples?
Anton leaned back imperceptibly and pulled out a cigar to light it. Behind the curling smoke, he seemed to casually probe the other man’s intentions once more: “Very well, that is an exceedingly wise choice. So, what about Ilya? Since you’re leaving, the two of you should come with me. Take me to see him right away. That lad admires Western-style freedom deep down; I guarantee he’ll agree even faster than you.”
At the mention of “Ilya,” the ecstasy on Filaret’s face froze instantly, replaced by an extremely eerie, twisted expression.
“What’s wrong?” Certain that the other man had something to ask for, Anton felt confident and unyielding; this time, he wouldn’t let him off so easily, pressing him relentlessly. “Where is Ilya?”
“He…” Filaret squeezed a single word from the depths of his throat, then fell silent once more. He stared intently at the spilled wine on the table, remaining silent for a full minute, his teeth nervously biting his lower lip until it turned pale.
Finally, he swallowed dryly and replied in a flat, monotone voice, “Ilya… he died in the line of duty a few years after being promoted to deputy director.”
“He’s gone?” Anton looked stunned, furrowing his brow as he pressed further. “What exactly happened? I’ve only heard that the institute underwent a massive purge before its decline—CIA informants either died or were recalled. Is that connected to what happened to Ilya?”
“You could say that,” Filaret replied vaguely. “Ilya accidentally came into contact with a neurotoxin in the lab, and it was too late to save him. A top-secret government bioweapons project poisoning its own deputy director—if that got out, it would be an international laughingstock and cause public panic. Naturally, the government issued a gag order.”
“You mean…”
“Yes. A deeply regrettable accident. Sigh, it’s an old wound. Just bringing it up feels like a knife cutting through my heart. Best not to talk about it.”
As he spoke, Philalete staggered to his feet and began tidying up the messy drinks table.
Anton keenly sensed that no matter how subtly he probed for details about that year, the other man remained tight-lipped. Though Filaret spoke of “grief,” his tone was as cold as if he were reading an obituary that had nothing to do with him; not a trace of sorrow could be found in his eyes.
This bone-chilling indifference stood in stark contrast to the intimate closeness they’d shared back when they were classmates.
Yet Filaret’s account might not be entirely fabricated. The CIA had also assessed the situation, concluding that the research institute had likely suffered some kind of experimental accident that alarmed higher-ups, or perhaps the sudden loss of a key leader, leading to its gradual neglect and abandonment.
What he suspected was whether human error had played a part in that accident.
That boy, Ilya…
Anton rubbed his temples. Bolstered by a few drinks, he let his rare sincerity show as he sighed with regret: “What a pity… I still remember how full of ambition Ilya was when he presented his concept of integrating living brains with military hardware during his university presentation. He was arrogant and headstrong, yet he was the most brilliant genius I’ve ever seen in my life…”
At that moment, Anton felt an inexplicable jolt in his heart. Lost in thought, he grabbed Filaret just as he was about to turn away: “Filaret, back when I was at the university, I saw how the two of you got along. You were very close, like brothers, but after all, your political beliefs were worlds apart, and your backgrounds were…”
“Professor, why are you bringing up these old matters out of the blue?” Filaret shifted uneasily, avoiding his gaze.
“Tell me the truth—is Ilya not actually dead?”
Filaret’s pupils suddenly contracted, and his whole body jerked violently as if he’d been electrocuted. He wrenched himself free from Anton’s grip, accidentally knocking over the half-empty bottle of vodka in the process. The liquor spilled wildly across the tabletop, mirroring the chaos of his mind at that moment.
“Professor… why… why would you ask that? Ilya is indeed dead.”
Anton’s gaze was piercing. “My instincts have always been accurate. Did you two have a falling out back when you worked together—something that alerted the KGB, leading them to take Ilya away?”
“No! That’s absolutely not true! Professor, you’ve had too much to drink. Stop making wild guesses!”
“All right, perhaps you didn’t exactly fall out, but judging by your attitude, you definitely had a major falling out with him. You didn’t tell him on purpose, did you, so he’d miss my visit tonight?”
“No, that’s not it…”
“If that’s the case, take me to see him. I’ll step in and mediate between you two. If he’s unintentionally offended you in any way, I’ll apologize on his behalf. That boy has a kind heart; he wouldn’t harbor any malicious intent.”
Filaret’s expression shifted erratically, and his hands, hidden beneath the table, trembled violently with nervousness.
He slowly raised his head, his tone taking on a strange, sarcastic edge: “Professor… I’m truly at a loss here. Back in Moscow, you used to constantly berate Ilya for being impulsive, reckless, and overly ambitious, yet who would have thought... that deep down, you’re so partial to him that you’ve already spoken up to defend him without even knowing the facts?”
Anton’s hand holding the cigar froze suddenly.
Realizing he had spoken out of turn, he immediately averted his gaze, crushed the cigar out in the dregs of his drink, and cut off the conversation: “Filaret, we’re both drunk. You’re right—let’s put the past behind us. That’s enough for tonight; I’m tired. I see this place is nearly deserted. Just point me to any vacant lab, and I’ll make do for the night.”
“That won’t do. The other rooms haven’t been cleaned in ages. You should sleep in this office, and I’ll make do outside for the night. But please, don’t wander around at night—the institute’s layout is complex, most of the lighting is out, and there have even been partial collapses in some of the tunnels. It’s very dangerous.”
Anton’s eyes flickered slightly, and he agreed without much thought.
He pressed his ear tightly against the door, listening intently as Filaret’s shuffling footsteps faded into the distance. He waited patiently in the darkness for nearly half an hour, surrounded by complete silence. Just as he was about to turn the doorknob and slip out, the footsteps suddenly returned.
“Tap, tap…”
Anton’s expression shifted slightly. Without hesitation, he quietly locked the office door from the inside, then flung himself onto the bed, closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep, deliberately emitting rhythmic snores.
Outside the door, Filaret tapped the wooden door twice with his knuckles and spoke in a hushed voice.
“Professor? Professor, are you asleep?”
Anton held his breath and remained completely silent. Immediately, a faint “click” sounded—the sound of a key turning in the lock.
Filaret pushed the door open and tiptoed to the bedside, looking down at his “sleeping” old mentor.
“Professor?” he called again.
The room was deathly silent, broken only by the steady sound of snoring.
A moment later, a sigh of relief escaped Filaret in the darkness: “Looks like he’s really asleep… That makes things easier.”
Immediately, his tone grew deeper, becoming so unnervingly neurotic it sent shivers down one’s spine: “Dear Professor, I must say, I’m looking forward to leaving this place, but before I do, there are some old ties and old matters that must be severed cleanly. You know you’ll surely blame me, but since it’s come to this… it’s decided. Son of God, have mercy on this sinner…”
This incoherent rambling sent a chill down Anton’s spine as he pretended to sleep.
A materialist reciting prayers and confessing his sins for no apparent reason—if not out of guilt before committing murder, then what else could it be?
His eyes were tightly shut, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, and his hand beneath the blanket was clenched tightly around the Browning pistol tucked close to his waist.
However, Filaret did not lay a hand on him. Instead, he let out a long sigh, turned, and pushed the door open to leave, his departing footsteps even carrying a strangely lighthearted air.
As soon as Filaret was gone, Anton sprang to his feet and tiptoed to trail far behind him. But just as Filaret had said, this underground facility had a labyrinthine layout with sparse lighting. Filaret was used to moving quickly, but Anton could only feel his way in the dark, and in no time at all, he lost sight of him at a fork in the tunnel.
Anton didn’t know why he cared so much about Filaret’s confession—wasn’t he just a poor soul on a deserted island on the verge of madness? As long as he handed over all the research institute’s experimental records and data tomorrow, who cared what kind of madness he went through tonight?
Anton spat out in frustration, held his breath to make sure no one else was around, and only then pressed the knob on the side of his watch. The dial emitted a faint green glow, barely illuminating a one-meter-square area in the darkness.
He moved forward a few more meters. As the glow swept past, a gruesome scene suddenly came into view—a twisted, mangled steel wreckage lay sprawled in a pool of viscous black blood and scorched engine oil. Sheet metal, gears, and wires were scattered all over the floor, interspersed with large chunks of pale, pinkish-white biological flesh.
What the hell is this? Could the research institute still be operating in secret, working on some kind of inhumane biochemical weapon or genetic modification program?
Anton’s eye twitched. He quickly adjusted the aperture on his watch, aimed at the chaotic scene, and snapped several photos in rapid succession to document the evidence. Then he stepped forward, crouched down, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, slipped them on, and carefully pried open the severely dented, shattered metal shell.
Just then, something unexpected happened!
“Rustle... rustle...”
Anton’s fingertip accidentally brushed against a switch, sending a burst of static through the air. He yanked his hand back in a flash, gripping the pistol grip at his waist and remaining on high alert.
He composed himself and realized the static was coming from the wreckage—a filthy portable walkie-talkie was now emitting a faint green glow from within the metal casing.
“Crackle… crackle…”
The next second, a young man’s voice—extremely weak and hoarse, yet clearly audible in the empty corridor—came through the walkie-talkie’s poor-quality speaker:
“Worker-01? Vera? Is that you… can you hear me? Did you get the spare magnetic card from the director’s office?”
“Vera? Answer me. Are you still alive? Can you move? Can you speak?”
“Ah, it must be my imagination. That commotion earlier… that thing was clearly smashed to pieces by that madman… It’s over…”
The person on the other end of the walkie-talkie called out repeatedly, only to be met in the end by a dry laugh bordering on despair.
“Well, I suppose this is… crackle… my dying words. If there really is a God in this world, please… crackle crackle… take my soul, and settle the score with that demon for me. Hah, don’t get the wrong idea—I, Ilya Molotov, actually…”
Anton felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.
He wouldn’t mistake that voice for anything else, especially since the man had identified himself as Ilya!
Without a moment’s hesitation, Anton pulled out the walkie-talkie, pressed the transmit button firmly, and growled hoarsely into the microphone: “Ilya! It’s Professor Anton! What do you mean, ‘last words’? Where are you? What’s happened?!”
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the radio, then Ilya’s voice suddenly rose, as if a drowning man had desperately grasped a lifeline:
“Professor! Is that really you? I—”
“What on earth happened?”
“There’s no time to explain! Anyway, that madman has been holding me captive in Lab 6! He suddenly lost his mind tonight. He walked in saying I absolutely must not stand in the way of his new life... He gave me just five minutes to leave my last words. Once the time’s up, he’s going to pull out my oxygen tube!”
“What’s the location of Lab 6?!”
“Find the longest main corridor running through this mountain and go all the way to the end! If the code hasn’t changed, it’s 1991! Hurry and save me... Professor, I don’t want to die! Hurry! I’m begging you—oh no, he seems to have noticed something’s wrong. No—”
“I’m on my way. Don’t lose the signal!”
Anton leapt to his feet, shoved the walkie-talkie into his chest, drew the already-loaded Browning pistol from his waist, and sprinted toward the far end of the corridor.
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